


Cosmic Jukebox

by TheRickestRickthereis



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventure, Aliens, Magical Girls, Multi, Non-binary character, questionable science, space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRickestRickthereis/pseuds/TheRickestRickthereis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Space. Adventure. Hands-off parenting. Cyril Exley has been subjected to all three in varying degrees until one night when his sociopathic grandpa Dudley tells him to get off Earth for a few days. Taking his best friend and a few guns, Cyril and Autumn head out to the Wild Black Yonder and make terrible choices. But what's artifact theft and necromancy between friends and enemies, really?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where it Starts

Cyril D. Exley has been described by many people as apathetic.

Many teachers cited “a brilliant mind but lacks drive,” and gently requested depression treatments and several doctors. Aware of the rift growing between them and their moody son, Cyril’s parents allowed him to temporarily move out of their house to live with his maternal grandfather, Dudley Akiyama. Cyril had been on board with the idea, helping pack up his room with a minimum of complaining and chattering to his parents that this might be a good thing for him. Stories of Cyril’s ninth birthday, when Dudley transported the two of them to a post-apocalyptic Earth and Cyril getting arrested a year later due to Dudley, universal customs, and an alien egg, did not make it into the rounds of cheerful banter. So it wasn’t that Cyril was depressed exactly. He just knew the universe was chaotic and horrifying and not a lot of things were worth giving a fuck about.

Cyril slowly cracked open the door to his room. He glanced down the hallway, standing momentarily still before opening the door wider. He carefully crawled out on his hands and knees, sneakers knotted together and hanging around his neck like headphones. Sock feet and hands padding on the shag carpet, Cyril stood abruptly, pressing his back against the wood-panelled wall, before surreptitiously glancing around the doorway to the living room. The living room was empty, and Cyril surged forwards, rifling through couch cushions, an ashtray filled with candy wrappers, and sweeping an arm under the chairs.

“Where the hell?” hissed Cyril, glancing over his shoulder and evening out his sneakers. Creeping out of the living room, Cyril clambered into the kitchen, straightening up to check the counters. There was a small metal box on the table, and Cyril eyed it dubiously. He’d never seen it before, so that meant it could either be harmless or could unleash a before-unknown level of pain. It was hard to tell with weird artifacts in Dudley’s house. Cyril reached for it, hesitated, and then brushed his fingers over the surface as lightly as he could. Immediately it began to beep, and its temperature dropped to the point where a thin layer of frost formed over the table’s surface.

“Whoops,” said Cyril, not moving.

“What did you do?!”

Cyril nearly shrieked at the shout from the basement. The cube began to emit a harsh purple light and slowly started to spin, cracking away from the ice on the table. “Shitshitshitshit!” Cyril hissed, unzipping his hoodie and throwing it over the cube, turning as his grandfather stomped into the kitchen. He took note of Dudley’s bulging forehead vein and snarled upper lip and felt his stomach sink to somewhere around his knees. “You little punk-ass little bitch,” said Dudley, holding a hand out for Cyril’s hoodie. Cyril reluctantly handed it over, feeling his shoulders hunching in. Dudley unfolded the red-and-black hoodie, throwing it back to his grandson without looking at him. The cube was floating now, spinning in the air and starting to scream.

“Goddammit Junior, always putting your fingers where they’re not supposed to be. You’re friggin’ winning the lottery for being the biggest pain in the ass today. How’re you gonna top this tomorrow?” shouted Dudley over the noise.

“What is that! Why did you leave it on the table!” screeched Cyril.

“Junior, grandpa needs you to scurry to the basement and pick him up a gun. It’s purple. I’d tell you the make, but you won’t remember or appreciate it.”

Cyril darted out of the kitchen, heading down the basement stairs in leaps of three until he nearly landed on one of the end tables. “Where in the basement!” he shouted, looking around and spotting four purple guns. Dudley always gave him shit for leaving them lying around but the basement gun rack was in really haphazard shape, with guns abandoned on the floor and others left on end tables and laid out on the couch. Which one? Hesitating between a small purple pistol and what looked like a shoulder-mounted cannon. Cyril grabbed the bigger one, unholstering it from the wall and leaving the pistol on a crocheted pillow.

“Aw, jeez!” he huffed, staggering under the weight and managing to cradle it in his arms so he could run back upstairs. “I found a gun!” he called, stepping back into the kitchen. Cyril could feel his hair being lifted away from his head by the energy emanating from the cube. “Great job for doing what you’re told, Cyril,” snapped Dudley. “You grabbed the wrong damn gun.”

“What? Which one, there’s like four-“

Dudley snatched the gun out of Cyril’s hands, aiming with one hand and firing easily. The cube erupted, splattering toothpaste-coloured goo all over the kitchen cabinets. “Back downstairs,” said Dudley, thrusting the gun into Cyril’s chest. Cyril spat out a gobbet of goo, gagging.

“I need the keys.”

Dudley stopped, glancing back over his shoulder at his grandson.

“Come again?”

“The keys. I need them? To give Autumn a ride? To school?” said Cyril haltingly, having the feeling he’d be exiled to his room before Dudley loosened the grip on the keys. Dudley wiped toothpaste-goo off the lenses of his glasses, staring beadily at Cyril, who had started to scratch at the side of his face. “You need the what now?” said Dudley, turning around. Cyril swallowed.

“The keys, grandpa. I need them.”

“The keys to what, Junior?”

Cyril inhaled deeply.

“I need the keys to Beercules. The Beerlukeys. Should I throw in a dumb little dance to sweeten the deal?”

Dudley’s face cracked into a grin. “They’re on top of the fridge.”

Cyril exhaled shakily, shooting his grandpa a grateful smile.

“Just clean up this shit when you get home. And maybe shower. Galaxy goop can sublimate flesh after a while.”

___________

Hauling a keg of beer out of the garden shed, Cyril rolled it through the backyard up to the garage, bumping the side door open with his hip. His hoodie had miraculously survived the cube’s death spasm, and he had used half a bottle of calamine lotion on himself to stop the worst of the burns. He sort of wondered what he was going to tell his teachers when he went back to school on Monday.

“Hey, you,” said Cyril to Beercules, kicking the door shut behind him and shouldering on the garage light. Beercules was a VW Beetle at one point in its life, before Dudley had reconfigured it with a warp drive and an alcohol-synthesizing engine. Through this, Beercules could achieve shaky, reluctant flight as a Supersonic Flight Dynamics test vehicle, although it looked less like a flying saucer and more like a cross between an inside-out VW Beetle and a pile of trash. Thumping the beer keg down next to Beercules, Cyril unscrewed the empty keg in the back of Beercules, replacing it with the full one, momentarily listening to the calming _glug-glug-glugg_ of beer running into the belly of Beercules.

“Alright,” muttered Cyril, pulling the keys out of his hoodie pocket. “Let’s go.”

Beercules lifted uncertainly out of Dudley’s driveway, with Cyril narrowly missing the electrical wires. Navigating above them, Cyril put the emergency brake on and began fumbling around in Beercules’ glove box. His fingers sifted over a near-endless supply of cassette tapes before snagging on Queen’s Greatest Hits. Cyril jammed it into the player, snapping the brakes off and navigating one-handed towards his destination as Freddie Mercury bellowed through Beercules' speakers.

Fleet Street was normally fifteen minutes away, but Beercules could get there in five. True to form, Autumn Bellsworth was waiting outside, alto saxophone case resting on the pavement like a wiener dog. Shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun, she squinted up at Beercules, watching as Beercules uneasily stalled, dropped, hovered and then parked with two wheels rolling over the curb. “Sorry I’m late,” said Cyril, kicking the passenger side door open. “Dudley stuff.”

“Mmhmm. What the heck happened to your face?” asked Autumn, carefully sliding her alto into the backseat and buckling it in.

“Again, Dudley stuff. Hopefully it’ll wash out by Monday.”

It would probably be easiest to describe Autumn Bellsworth as Unlike Everyone Else, setting her apart as a closed system in the face of all other women. However, looking at the infinite system of the universe, there is probably more than one strawberry-blonde white girl who enjoys spray paint, alto sax, and mass-produced pop music, even if you factor in that Autumn’s eyes had a habit of crawling over whoever she was talking to, lingering in areas that would make the other slightly uncomfortable. Autumn and Cyril had become friends in grade eight chemistry, when Cyril slid into the empty seat beside her with a travel mug of coffee and a can of Red Bull. Twisting the top off the mug, Cyril stated, “I am going to die,” poured in the Energy Drink, and chugged it down. Their friendship was further cemented through group projects and solidified through swapped tales of sordid subpar parenting.

“Sooo,” said Autumn. “Can you play something else?”

“Like what?” Cyril said, distracted as he tried to un-jam Beercules’ handbrake.

“You know, anything from after the year we were born?”

Cyril stared at her in mock horror. “But Autumn! I’ve been permanent DJ of Beercules since grade nine!”

“I’ve been trying to challenge that edict since then. Trial by combat, Exley!”

Cyril snickered. “You couldn’t beat me in hand-to-hand if your life depended on it.”

Autumn slouched in her seat, picking at a duct tape scar on her armrest. “I hate Queen. I hate a lot of their songs but I know all the damn words because of your terrible music taste,” she griped, tearing up a silver tape sliver. “Well, looks like you’re fucking walking next time, aren’t you?” asked Cyril, turning left to pass over the grotty public pool. “I mean,” he continued, “How can you not like Queen? Or ELO?” He was doing his best to look shocked, but they’d played and replayed this argument too many times for it to be anything different.

“Uh, because I’m not eight hundred years old? Recent stuff is okay too, Cyril. Dudley’s just, like, brainwashed you into liking music from the nineteen-seventies,” said Autumn, reaching for the cassette player’s eject button. Cyril laughed briefly. “Go right ahead. It’s a cassette player. You’re never gonna get a tape with the stuff you like on it. Not in a million years,” he said, hanging a right towards the school. Autumn narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know that. I mean, your grandpa has all sorts of weird science stuff, right? He probably has a blank cassette tape I can borrow.”

Cyril pulled Beercules into park, dropping down to land squarely in a teacher’s empty parking spot. “If you think that cassette tapes are ‘weird science stuff’, then maybe you should leave the science stuff up to me and Dudley,” he said, touching Beercules’ wheels down gently. “Whatever,” said Autumn, reaching back to get her alto sax. “Thanks for the ride, Cyril.”

Cyril shot her a grin. “Not a problem. Want me to pick you up so you can further berate my music choices? It’ll keep you from getting arrested again.”

“I was in holding and got an ankle bracelet, jackass. Big difference. And yeah, sure, Exley, do what you like.”


	2. Telephone

The band room of Godot Springs High School always smelled like it had been walled-up in the middle of a bog at one point, and was in the midway point of excavation. The brass kids blamed the woodwind kids, saying it was because of damp-splattered clothing and bags that had been left there for weekends-on-end, while the woodwinds blamed the brass section for continuously emptying their spit valves into the carpet. The Godot High Junior Jazz band was slowly assembling chairs and stands in the murky-smelling band room, picking apart the concert band setup for music stands and chairs.

“What’re we doing today?” asked Jeremy Li. Jeremy was first alto sax, and clung onto that title with a grip that would make a dictator wince.

“Uh, Fever, Shiny Stockings, and that one by Charlie Parker…?” supplied Sammi Hoskins. Sammi had shown up with the shirt she wore for all sectionals, a dark t-shirt emblazoned with _BARI SAXY_. Jeremy scowled, flipping open his case to fumble for a reed.

“Yo, Autumn,” called Theresa Dankworth, second tenor. “You dating Exley or what?”

Autumn tightened her neck strap. “Nah, we’re just friends. Why, wassup?” she asked, glancing over. Theresa shrugged and raised her pierced-up eyebrows.

“There’s these rumours going around, y’know, that Cyril’s gay.”

“I don’t think he’s gay,” said Sammi. “At least, not all the way through,” she added as an afterthought.

“I heard he blew Patrick Rhineheart,” said RJay Franklin, who was digging through the instrument cupboards for his music folder.

“Shut up, RJay, you’re second alto, nobody cares what you think.”

“Besides, the one about Rhineheart and Cyril isn’t true,” said Autumn, socking a reed into the pocket of her cheek. “Cyril never gets invited anywhere.”

_____________

Cyril returned back to an empty house, although the kitchen was still caked in cooling galaxy goo. It wasn’t really too concerning for him. Dudley often went out and didn’t come back for a few days, leaving money taped to the fridge to cover anything that would come up. Dudley hadn’t put up a fridge fund this time, so he’d probably be back in two days at most.

“Nice. I am totally broke,” muttered Cyril, opening the fridge. “Push back your science hours, Cyril, I have a lot of work to do, Cyril, but I’ll never tell you what I’m doing except for when I blow up furniture. We are low on beer.”

Low On Beer, in this case, meant down to 12 cases. Beercules was always thirsty. Hopefully she wouldn’t need any repairs done while Dudley was away. Cyril shut the fridge door. “Hey, Dudley! Are you hiding around here?” he shouted, waiting for an answer.

“Grandpa!”

Still nothing. Cyril blew air out of the side of his mouth and wandered down the hallway to the mudroom, where the cleaning supplies were. He could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the house, but everything was very quiet. His mind had grabbed onto whatever Dudley’s project was. It could literally go anywhere. Unfortunately, everything was possible. It was really hard to get any sort of barometer on normal, or even legal. Heck, even with all the universe-jumping Dudley did, if you screwed up too badly, you could always find a different universe where everything was still completely fine. It was like having a temporal backspace button, Dudley told him. Everything you did, and here he would sweep his hands back and forth. It didn’t matter.

Cyril rolled his shoulders, reaching for the cleaning caddy above the washing machine and pulling on elbow-length rubber gloves. “Sublimates flesh, my ass. I’mma call the cops on you, old man,” he muttered, lugging the heavy basket back to the kitchen.

______________

The phone call didn’t arrive until eleven at night. Cyril had managed to scrub down and chip off a few cabinets’ worth of goo, but the stuff was proving to be stubborn. Cyril let the phone ring twice before reluctantly picking it up.

“Yo, Exley residence.”

"Not yet it's fucking not."

The line briefly hissed with static, and there was a heavy click.

“Hello?” asked Cyril, twining the cord around one rubber-gloved finger. There was a gasp on the other end of the line.

“Junior, don't play games. It’s me.”

“Grandpa?” Cyril asked, trying to sound clueless. Dudley sounded half-panicked and half-pissed off, which usually meant Cyril had to either cash in some favours or just plain retrieval.

“Are you drunk?” asked Cyril. “You need me to pick you up, grandpa?”

“Look, Sassacre at the Alamo, slow your roll a bit. You gotsta do your granddad a little favour.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “You’re arrested again.”

“Junior, get out of the house. Right. Now.”

“What?” asked Cyril, not trying to be clueless this time.

The line briefly sizzled with static.

“Get out of the house. Take Beercules and get off the planet, Cyril. I’ve been messing around with universal energy and it’s, it’s really come back to bite me in the ass.”

Cyril groaned, pressing his forehead to the wall. “Grandpa, I can’t just duck out. I’ve got school and stuff on monday.”

“Cyril, I love you, I really do, but if you don’t listen to your grandpa right now, I will come down there and beat your ass at the first opportunity.”

“Grandpa, _no.”_

The line fizzed, and then there was a sharp scream of feedback. There was a muffled blast, and then Dudley let out a low noise of disapproval.

“If you're not making that noise at me,” said Cyril, leaning against the wall "Then I feel very sad about being replaced."

“I'll give you something to be sad about, you little punk.” said Dudley in a tone of voice that momentarily made Cyril’s stomach curdle with anxiety. Sure, his grandpa's limits could be hard to find and they changed from day to day but Cyril always tried really hard to avoid them.

“Anyway,” said Dudley, almost casually. “Beercules, off-planet, take some anti-matter guns with you from the basement, and I’m going to send a contact to meet you at Tezuka’s, okay Junior?”

Cyril nodded, before realizing his grandpa couldn’t see him.

“Yeah, I got it, Dudley.”

The call cut out. Cyril tapped down the receiver a few times, but couldn’t even get a dial tone. Swiping the Beerlukeys from the counter, Cyril rolled off his gloves and went to go pack.


	3. For a friend

It was midnight, but Autumn had no intention of going to bed anytime soon. She’d been aimlessly researching sugar-based spray paint, cycling through limited-edition colours, with another tab open to her tumblr. The inability to actually go out and create was driving her stir-crazy, and looking at other people’s designs didn’t help. But she had to give it a little bit more time, or else she’d wind up with community service instead of court-mandated therapy with Dr. Day.

There was a rhythmic knocking on the front door of the apartment. Stretching, Autumn abandoned her search to go answer it. It would probably be Cyril. Nobody else came around this late.

_Hey, Autumn, I know it’s late, but can we hang out?_

_Autumn, I have to tell you this shit Dudley’s putting me through, it’s killing me._

_Autumn, I have to bail grandpa out of jail again on Thursday, so I’mma need your chem notes._

Her instincts hadn’t proven wrong, either. Cyril was standing out in the hallway, backpack slung over one shoulder, and the keys to Beercules trapped in one hand. “Hey, Autumn. I’ve come to kidnap you in a grand sweeping romantic gesture,” he said, showing his teeth in an uncomfortable grin. “Cyril, come on. We both know the result of you living in an unreliable household has left you with the inability to be spontaneous,” Autumn said, leaning on the doorframe.

Cyril looked offended. “I can so be spontaneous.”

“And that’s great, Cyril, it really is.”

“Whatever. Lemme out of the hallway.”

Autumn stepped to the side to allow Cyril to pass. Her aunt Linda would probably be mad that she was having friends over this late. But aunt Linda knew Cyril since he was a squeaky-voiced eighth grader, and it’s not like they were gonna end up in bed. Besides, she could do better for a booty call than Cyril anyways.

“We need to leave Earth for a bit,” said Cyril, jumping up to sit on the kitchen table.

Well, it wasn’t sex. But Cyril would often come through with doomsday messages and show up a few days later at her apartment looking haunted.

“What, just us?” answered Autumn.

“Well, yeah, I don’t think we can fit everyone in Beercules.”

“Cyril,” intoned Autumn, using her Serious Business voice.

“Well, come on, Autumn. I got a message from my grandpa. Either I’m in a lot of trouble or the whole planet is, okay? He told me to bring guns and I really don’t want to do this by myself,” said Cyril, folding his arms. His eyebrows were starting to push together, which she knew meant he was anxious. But still, though, why would Cyril come to get her or all people? Sure, he wasn’t on great speaking terms with either of his parents, not since middle school. Autumn realized with an unpleasant jolt of pity that Cyril didn’t have any other friends. Really, they’d probably just orbit the Earth in Beercules for a bit and eat Doritos. It’d probably not be for too long, and they could probably just come back for Monday.

“Alright, fine. Just let me pack some stuff and leave Aunt Linda a note.”

Cyril gave a small, grateful smile.

After dragging her backpack to her room, Autumn threw a change of clothes, her wallet, three pocket-sized Ironlak spray paints, and two different nozzles into it. What else would she need? Should she take photos? Phone. Where was her phone? Right, front pocket of her hoodie. Autumn hastily ripped her charger out of the wall and threw it into her backpack. Would she need makeup?

“You ready to go yet?” called Cyril.

“Gimme a sec!” shouted Autumn. She pulled a pack of green post-its off her dresser and a thick sharpie off the floor.

_Dear Aunt Linda, Cyril’s going through some weird stuff right now and he needs my help. I’ll be back when I can, and don’t worry about me. Love ya, Autumn xox_

Sticking it to her bedroom door, Autumn hoped that Linda would be able to spot it when she came home from her shift at the hospital. Glancing around at the general chaos of her bedroom, Autumn wondered if she’d come back. What if the trouble was bad trouble, not just Dudley-in-holding? Like, what if it was full-on Independence Day yippee-ki-yay-Mister-Falcon level? No, it wouldn’t be that bad. Everything was gonna be fine, and she’d come back, and she’d go to her therapist on Wednesday and talk about her “obsession” with destruction, and constructive ways to channel creativity and about this whole stupid thing. Like, use a sketchbook, Autumn, not the side of a police station.

Cyril hadn’t moved from his spot on the kitchen table. “You ready to go?” he asked, eyeing her backpack. “Yup,” said Autumn, trying to sound certain. He nodded. “Nice. Let’s go. I’ve got Beercules parked outside.”


	4. Plants

Autumn wrapped her arms around her knees. Beercules was getting colder and colder the further they went away from Earth. Already, frost had started to form on the windshield and both Autumn and Cyril could see their breath.

“How messed up would it be,” said Cyril, teeth chattering, “if the Earth just blew up behind us?”

“That would be messed up,” agreed Autumn, glancing over her shoulder. Cyril clapped his hands, trying to bring some feeling back into his fingers. “Where’re we going?” asked Autumn, staring over the dashboard at the far-away blot of Mars. Cyril made an uncertain noise. “It’s space, Autumn, we can go anywhere,” he said flatly.

Autumn glanced into the backseat at the five guns Cyril had managed to stash. “Are you kidnapping me?” she asked, not entirely joking.

“Nope. Not this time,” answered Cyril.

There was a thick, impermeable silence.

“Are we there yet?” asked Autumn, staring back at the faint blue blip of Earth. “Oh my God,” said Cyril irritably. “Don’t start.”

“Hey Cyril?” asked Autumn, turning around and cradling her backpack close to her.

“What’s up, Bellsworth?”

“…Are we?”

Cyril groaned. “I will crash this ship if you start this,” he threatened, jerking the wheel to the left. “Crash it into what?” asked Autumn, gesturing around them at the empty space.

“We’ll crash!” promised Cyril. “Eventually!”

“I thought space was meant to be scenic,” muttered Autumn, slumping into her seat and reaching forwards to fiddle with the radio. “Space is not scenic,” said Cyril, shaking his head like he’d never heard something so ridiculous. The radio fizzed with static, and then emitted a burble of sound. “No way!” said Autumn happily. “We can pick up stuff out here?” Cyril frowned, taking one hand off the wheel to turn up the volume. “Please! Whoever’s out there! This is an automated distress call from the W. Timeskip, Fleet four-dash-five-dash-eight! Our coordinates are Area twenty-five-C-One-Thirty Eight!”

“Oooh,” said Cyril, eyes lighting up as the message looped. “That’s not too far.”

“Are we gonna help them?” asked Autumn, glancing between Cyril and the radio. “Uh, yeah! It's like, number one rule of the multiverse!” announced Cyril, yanking the wheel to the left and pushing down several buttons on Beercules’ dash. “Always check out distress calls! Nine out of ten times, everyone's dead, and looters beat you there and did enough damage for you to be all clear.”

“What about the other ten percent of the time?” asked Autumn, picking at her seatbelt.

“What’re you so worried about? Just take more than one gun and we’ll be fine.”

_________________

The W. Timeskip was a bigger ship than Beercules. The Timeskip looked to be a three-tiered battleship, with a snub nose and multiple scars in its paint. Lights on the side of the ship were still working, although a few were flickering ominously. “It looks totally abandoned,” said Cyril gleefully.

“Okay,” said Autumn cautiously. “How’re we gonna get in?”

“If all else fails,” said Cyril, carefully nosing Beercules onto the edge of the Timeskip. “There’s a couple spacesuits under Beercules’ backseat.”

Beercules’ wheels momentarily scraped against the Timeskip before Cyril threw it into park, muttering a short curse and pulling up. Navigating Beercules over the edge of the Timeskip, Cyril and Autumn dropped down to a small open hatch. “No way!” said Cyril, turning Beercules towards the open hatch. “Everyone’s already left!”

“What is that?” asked Autumn, undoing her seatbelt and clambering over to look out Cyril’s window. “This, is…” said Cyril, edging Beercules down into the opening, flying at an angle and occasionally scraping against the walls. “This is an escape hatch. When the escape pods pop off in an emergency, they leave these empty things. Also, you’re really not supposed to travel up them, so hopefully Dudley won’t notice the new scratches.”

Beercules inched through the escape tunnel agonizingly slowly, heading further away from the lights on the outside of the ship and Cyril easily flipped on the headlights. Beercules’ belly scraped against the floor of the tunnel before falling loose, plummeting in free fall. “Whoa!” shouted Cyril, grappling with the emergency brake. Autumn uttered a short scream, her fingernails digging into her seat. Beercules jerked to an uneasy hover, engine wheezing.

“You okay?” he asked, shooting Autumn a grin.

“I think I pissed myself a little,” she deadpanned.

Cyril cackled, spinning Beercules to look around. “Lemme know if you see any facehuggers eggs or anything. Those things pay for college.”

Beercules drifted aimlessly through the bottom bunker of the Timeskip, headlights drifting across walls thick with cables. Cyril had fumbled the radio back on, and strains of Earth, Wind, and Fire filtered tinnily through the speakers. The darkness closed around Beercules like eels, the pinpoints of the headlights looking oddly choked off. “Why the frick are there so many cables?” asked Cyril after a while, squinting over the dashboard at the walls. “What were they powering?”

“Can you get closer?” asked Autumn. Cyril edged closer to the wall, pulling parallel to the wall itself. The cable work was so thick that the wall underneath it was hidden. Staring in silence for a moment, Autumn broke the silence with, “They’ve got leaves on them. They’re plants.”

“Oooh. That means oxygen!” said Cyril, pulling off the brakes and letting Beercules careen down to the floor.

“Don’t do that! Oh my God!” snapped Autumn, pressing a hand to her chest, momentarily bouncing in her seat as Beercules’ shocks bottomed out. Cyril shrugged nonchalantly. Beercules groaned, and sunk a few inches. “It’s fiiiiine,” reassured Cyril. “This happens sometimes. Just grab the flashlights from the glove compartment and don’t ask questions.”

__________________

“Damn,” said Autumn, kicking at a lump of vines on the floor. “These things are everywhere.” She shone her flashlight over the floor, following a bright red leafy plant until it twisted away through a crack. She had taped it to the nose of her gun with some of Beercules’ armrest tape, illuminating the way forwards without having to juggle between the light and weapons. “I want some free shit,” said Cyril. “And we gotta hurry before the cops show up.”

“Oh no! The space cops!” said Autumn, grasping at her face in mock horror before breaking out in laughter. Her voice and laughter echoed through the ship, pounding off the walls and away. Cyril even gave a small smile, adjusting the straps of his rifle so it sat squarely in the middle of his back. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s, like, the Official Templars of Justice, y’know, typical Buzz Lightyear space marine types. And there’s like, a friggin' alt-universe Council of my granddad. And of me, too, I guess.”

The two of them started trudging forwards, flashlights pointing at the ground so they wouldn’t trip. “A Council of Dudleys?” asked Autumn. “You serious?”

“They’re like, alternate universe versions of my grandpa, I think? Basically, Dudley’s pissed off a lot of people over the span of paradox space, so all these alt-versions have unionized into this force of gross old men. I'm not really sure, though, it's not like Dudley tells me anything,” said Cyril. “Oh my God, stairs.”

The twists and turns of the staircase were festooned with small creeping vines, dainty tendrils snaking between the railing bars.

“So that’s it? Just a giant struggle between the Council of Dudleys and the Space Knights?” asked Autumn, lagging slightly behind Cyril. “That’s what I know of. I mean, there could be more, but, again, Dudley doesn’t tell me much,” replied Cyril, poking at a small, drooping flower that squiggled like raw meat.

“I’ve never fired a gun,” said Autumn suddenly, looking up the stairs. “Aw. That’s really sweet,” said Cyril. “Eventually the joy of killing will ice out the rest of your life.”

“You patronizing asshole,” said Autumn, a vine squishing under her foot.

“Yup!” said Cyril, shining his flashlight over the walls, unfazed. “There sure are a lot of plants up in here.”

At the top of the stairs, Cyril and Autumn swung the beams of their flashlights back and forth, looking around for anything remotely interesting. It looked like this had been part of the bridge once, commanding chairs and blank, shattered screens gripped with plant life.

“This’s a total wash,” griped Cyril, firing a shot into a bed of vines. Autumn jumped at the sound, amplified by the small space and low ceiling.

“Cyril!” she yelped. “Don’t _do_ that!”

Cyril scowled, moving off down the room to check out the corners. Autumn prodded at one of the vines with the tip of her gun, watching as it dimpled under her touch. “Yecch,” she muttered, pulling her gun away, watching as an indent slowly filled back. Cyril wandered into an unlocked room, flashlight crawling slowly over broken glass and what looked like opals shining on the floor. He stooped to look at them, picking up a tiny white stone. It certainly felt a lot harder than glass, but Cyril had a sinking doubt it was rock. Turning it over in his palm, he noticed a silver patch on the reverse side. He immediately threw it to the floor, and kicked the rest away with a sweep of his foot. He tried to register if there were enough teeth around him to make a full set. Why were there only teeth left. Where did the rest of the people go? Dudley would know what to do in a situation like this. He just needed to think. Were they in danger right now? What should they do?

“Autumn,” he said, his stomach slowly knotting up. “Autumn, I think we should go.”

“Can’t hear you!” she called, her voice distant. Cyril stepped out into the bridge. It was empty.

“Which way did you go?” he called, shining his flashlight back and forth, only to show empty hallways on either side.

“This way!” she shouted. Cyril had no idea which direction it came from. Taking a deep breath, Cyril went down the right-hand fork of the hallway.

“I’m just saying, Autumn, even if we do play it to look like looters,” he said loudly. “It might not be worth it, y’know?”

At that moment, the emergency lights burst on, saturated fuchsia light filtering through the plants on the walls. Cyril gave a short scream of fear before clamping his hand over his mouth. He froze, standing as still as he could in the middle of the hallway, listening for any telling sounds.

“Autumn,” he whispered. There wasn’t any response. He tried to whisper again, but his throat locked up, the sound dying before he could say anything.

Frozen with fear, Cyril pressed both hands to his face, the flashlight cutting into the side of his left temple. Oh, God, he should get his gun. Cyril could feel his gun hanging uselessly on his back, but he knew that if he stood very still and stayed very quiet nothing bad could possibly happen.

“Cyril! I got the lights on! There was a big switch, and I snapped the plants off them and they sort of spewed goop everywhere, but I don’t think it’s bad, it just stinks!” Autumn bounded around the corner, stopping dead at the sight of Cyril. “What’s up? You okay?” she asked. Her hands were stained with slime the colour of strawberry jam. Cyril tried to not look at them. “I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?” he answered brusquely, turning his flashlight off and stowing it in his hoodie pocket.

“I dunno, you just looked a little sick,” answered Autumn, wiping her hands off on the plants around them. “You find anything cool?”

“Nah,” Cyril shook his head. “I didn’t find anything.”

“Boo,” said Autumn dejectedly. “You were right, this does suck.”

Moving off together down the corridor, Cyril stuck close to Autumn and stayed silent. “Hey,” said Autumn suddenly. “You hear that?”

“No. Hear what?”

Autumn grinned. “Footsteps, dude. Maybe there’s other looters. Dude, what if we meet aliens?”

Cyril made a small noise, reaching over his shoulder for his rifle. Footsteps began echoing around them, with shouts coming from the level above them. “Should we run?” asked Autumn uneasily, glancing towards Cyril. That question was answered quickly, with both getting their legs kicked out at the knee.

“Down! Restu Malsupren!”

“Take it easy!” shouted Cyril, trying to sit up. A booted foot slammed down, pressing Cyril’s face into the floor.

“Vi trudas, yeah? Mi devus aresti vin.”

Autumn looked over her shoulder. The figure was vaguely humanoid, with six arms and a jade green jumpsuit. They had a narrow, inhuman face, like that of a crocodile. “We were just looking around!” she said. “We didn’t hurt anything!”

“Speak English?” they asked, turning its attention from Cyril to her. “Do you have a chip?”

“A what now?”

“A translation chip,” muttered Cyril, trying to squirm away from the alien, boot-treads imprinting into his face. “It wants to know if you’ve got a universal translation chip.”

“Do we have one?” asked Autumn, wondering if Cyril left it in Beercules. “What do you think?” Cyril snapped.

“It’s fine. I know english. I’m Officer Kvar, O.T.J. rank four-nine-one-seven-six,” they said, removing their boot from Cyril’s face. Cyril rolled up onto his knees, reaching for his gun. “So don’t take this personally,” he said, “But we’re gonna be going.”

“No? No you’re not?” said Officer Kvar, settling back on double-jointed knees and pointing their gun at Cyril's wandering hand. “You two are kind of under arrest?”

“What?” demanded Cyril, gun momentarily forgotten.

“Why?” “Well,” said Officer Kvar, ticking points off on an eight-fingered hand. “Breaking and entering, B and E with intent to loot, unlicensed firearms, and like,” they gestured at the plants around them. “All this plant shit.”

“We didn’t do that, though!” protested Autumn, sitting cross-legged. “Well, the plant thing, that wasn’t us. I mean, we sort of did all the other stuff.”

Cyril shot her a wide-eyed look of disbelief.

“If you guys resist arrest,” said Officer Kvar happily. “I get to tase you. I got a new model so I’m sort of y’know, antsy.”

“Holy shit,” said Cyril, shoving his wrists in the officer’s face, “Just book us.”


	5. Interruption of Justice

“Spit.”

Cyril glared. “Nah.”

“Look, kid, there’s a line.”

“Don’t care. I want my phone call.”

Criminal Processing Plant E was only a little ways beyond Earth’s solar system, situated on a small moon of planet Cassiopeia. The ride over had been a stony, unpleasant one broken by Autumn fiddling with her wrist restraints and Officer Kvar humming show tunes. Processing Plant E was also swarming with life forms of all degrees. Templars in dark green uniforms loitered around the first floor, keeping careful watch on the haphazard lines, while others loitered against the metal safety railings on the second floor. “You’re holding up the line,” snapped the purple-skinned alien who was trying to process Cyril. “That sucks,” said Cyril, folding his arms and otherwise not moving. “We need some sample of DNA for this,” the alien said wearily, rattling a machine that looked like a debit changer at Cyril.

“I want a phone call.”

“How about you give us a sample and we’ll let you have the phone call?” wheedled the alien, leaning across its messy desk. When Cyril didn’t respond, the alien said, “It doesn’t have to be spit.”

Cyril thought about it a moment in silence, then hawked and spat into the alien’s face.

The alien reeled back, screeching in surprise. Several of the second floor Templars unholstered their weapons, but only one got a shot in.

“Dang! Steve, you had the last one! We’re taking turns!”

“Bang!” yelled Officer Steve. “Too slow!”

Cyril felt the prick of the shell strike the back of his neck, and was followed by a numbing paralysis that spread out through his whole body. “Be more careful!” yelped the alien as Cyril slid out of his seat and onto the floor. “You’re going to get that goop on my desk!”

* * *

On the other side of Processing Plant E, Autumn drummed her fingers against her thigh. She was sitting in a sunken waiting room between a large grey hippo-faced alien the size of a garbage truck and a dark-skinned girl about her own age. Autumn watched as the other girl slowly fished a cigarette out of the top of her bra, and huffed out a small stream of fire to light it. “Vi deziras unu?” asked the girl, taking a drag. “No? Sorry, English only,” said Autumn, shooting her an apologetic smile. “My bad. You want one?” said the other girl, switching seamlessly to English. “I’m okay,” said Autumn, watching as the cigarette began to emit coils of dark purple smoke. “What’d they stick you with?” asked the other girl, snorting purple smoke out her nose. “I haven’t really been charged yet,” Autumn admitted. “They haven’t really found anything.”

The other girl harrumphed, flicking ash onto the floor. “What’d they get you for?” asked Autumn, pulling at the magnetized restraints around her wrists. “Gang activity. This is like, my third warning? So I’m probably going to jail this time,” said the other girl, scuffing her boot against the floor. “You don’t know that for sure,” responded Autumn, shrugging as best as she could. Spotting a Templar heading down their line, Autumn muttered, “You might want to hide that cig.”

* * *

Cyril could feel drool running down his face, and he did his best to wiggle his fingers. The sooner he could get circulation to his extremities, the better. The Templars had carted him off and propped him up on a bench, cuffing his hands behind him around a slat to keep him from toppling over. A passing officer noticed Cyril slumping over, and pushed him up with the edge of a file. Cyril gurgled. “Malaneta,” muttered the Templar, and kept going. Cyril tapped his feet, satisfied that he could keep a rhythm. Those neuropoppers sure held a lot of punch in them. Noticing two more Templars heading over, Cyril shifted his weight to sit squarely on the bench and wipe off his mouth on the shoulder of his hoodie.

“What do you think?” asked one, a blonde woman with brown roots. She held up a small photograph next to Cyril’s face. “Still look like him?”

“No way!” responded the other, a three-eyed alien with dark orange skin and a sagging belly. “That’s him, alright!”

“Aw, man, Cyril, you’ve grown up so much!” gushed the blonde Templar.

“Yeah,” rumbled her companion. “Puberty really did a number on you. Yikes.”

Cyril ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth and glanced at the photo. It was from the first time he’d ever been arrested, nearly seven years ago. He’d been ten, and it’d been mostly Dudley’s fault, but he’d rather not get into that now. “You don’t look like your grandpa. Did we arrest him, too?” asked the blonde Templar eagerly, reaching forwards to pinch one of Cyril’s cheeks. His nerves sizzled underneath the pinch, feeling novocaine-numb. “Nah…” he said, putting his focus into enunciation. “Jus….me.”

“Really taking after your grandpa, aren’t you?” said the three-eyed Templar, folding his thick arms. “C’mon Chumba, apples and trees and stuff,” said the human Templar. “Although I seriously can’t wait to update his mug shot.”

“What?” said Cyril slowly, his tongue not quite cooperating. “Charges?”

“I got this,” said Chumba. “You’ve been cleared of Breaking and Entering, but trespassing, illegal firearms, theft, and you know. Murder. Grand slam, sport. You’re going to jail.”

* * *

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Plant, a female Templar with a clipboard had stopped in front of Autumn. “Autumn Marina Bellsworth?” she said, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her face. “Present and accounted for!” said Autumn brightly, raising her cuffed hands. “English?” asked the guard, eyeing her warily.

“Yes, please.”

“You’re free to go. However, your accessory status will go on your permanent record and will keep you from traveling beyond Ring Three in future trips,” said the Templar, swiping a card through Autumn’s cuffs and deactivating the charge between them. “What about Cyril?” asked Autumn, stretching her arms out as far as they’d go. “Oh, don’t worry about him,” said the Templar, nodding. “He’s going to jail.”

“Yowch!” said the other girl, exhaling a foul-smelling plume of violet smoke. The Templar’s expression soured rapidly. “Channah Maksimov. I’m not surprised to see you here. Again.”

“Call it what you want, baby,” Channah said, shooting the Templar a full smile. “I’m just a sucker for justice.”

Autumn scanned the packed room, trying to catch a glimpse of Cyril. Maybe she’d have a chance to say goodbye before they carted him off for good. “When’s Cyril’s trial? Does he get a trial?” asked Autumn, turning back to the Templar. Channah whooped with laughter, still holding onto her cigarette. “Can you put that out?” asked the Templar, sounding like her patience was wearing thin. “You and what army?” said Channah, taking an aggressive drag. Tuning them out, Autumn slipped off through the crowd, weaving between the lines and looking around for Cyril.

* * *

Cyril had been put into a small plexiglass booth, properly I.D’ed and with a brand new scar behind his ear from a fresh universal translator chip. “Y’know,” said a Marine, leaning against one of the walls of Cyril’s booth. “You’ve grown up a lot since your last arrest.”

“Eat my ass, sir,” intoned Cyril, folding his arms and staring straight ahead. The fact he was going to be arrested hadn’t fully sunk in yet. He really did not want to go to prison. Sure, Dudley had gone to jail at his age, and he’d turned out, well, he’d turned into Dudley.

Cyril really, really did not want to go to prison.

“No, no, I mean it. You lost a lot of baby fat in six years,” said the Templar with a grin, knocking on the plexiglass with a knuckle. “Officer, um,” Cyril leaned in to check his name tag. The Templar obligingly lifted his name tag up to the light to make it easier to read. “Officer Mike, you can leave. Don’t you have a minority to oppress?” asked Cyril, shifting his weight to one foot, as the cubicle wasn’t actually wide enough for him to comfortably sit down, so he was reduced to standing uncomfortably. Officer Mike pouted. “Why you gotta be exactly like your grandpa? Would it kill you to be nice?”

Cyril chose not to answer, instead staring out at the crowd. He faintly hoped Autumn would just go home and not worry too much. He’d go see her when he got out. Which would hopefully be soon and not twenty moon rotations or some other arbitrary form of measurement.

When Autumn shouldered her way through the crowd, Cyril felt his spirit sink, just slightly. “Hey, you! You’re getting arrested!” she shouted, darting forwards to press her hands on the glass.

“Easy!” said Officer Mike brusquely, throwing up a hand signal to the guards on the second floor. “Sorry,” said Autumn. “I just might, y’know, never see him again. With the whole go-to-jail-don’t-collect-two-hundies thing.”

Officer Mike blinked owlishly, either never having played Monopoly or having come from a universe where Monopoly didn't exist.

 “Autumn,” said Cyril, pressing his hands to the glass on his side, mirroring her own hands. “There’s one thing I want you to do for me.”

“Yeah?” Autumn responded, her fingers curling slightly.

“Autumn Bellsworth,” breathed Cyril, pressing his forehead to the glass and eyes momentarily darting over to Officer Mike. “I need you to start a riot in the next half an hour.”

* * *

Autumn worked her way back to her original bench, going over the best way to start a riot. Cyril didn’t exactly tell her where to start, with the Templar being right there and all. Maybe the key was having the right attitude. When starting a prison riot, remember to have fun and be yourself.

Channah was still sitting on the bench, minus the cigarette, and now with a red welt on the side of her neck. “Hey, you. Miss Autumn. You’re back early,” said Channah, rubbing at her neck.

“I need a lot of help,” said Autumn, crouching low and looking around for Templars. “I sort of need to start a riot.”

“You’re asking the black girl to start a riot for you?”

“Look—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“I don’t want you to do anything for me!” said Autumn, kneeling in front of Channah. “I just really, really need help, my best friend is going to jail and the system they’ve got isn’t working and I really, really need help! I just said that, didn't I? Also I am really sorry for what I said because you’re right that was really messed up!”

Channah made a dismissive noise, folding one leg over the other. “What about your gang?” asked Autumn. “Cyril's like, my gang?”

Channah paused, biting down on her lower lip, before pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“You know what this is more likely to land us in? _Meesa Masheena_. A gory demise,” said Channah. “But _malbenita_ , my girls are gonna need me. I'm no good in prison to them. Let’s go. I owe them.”

“Thank—“ Autumn began to say before Channah cut her off.

“I owe them. I don’t owe you nothing.”

Channah recommended they wait until a Templar passed by, and then darted forwards to swipe her cuffs over the deactivation card on the back of their belt. “Okay, so we’ll need, like, weapons?” asked Autumn. “I mean, that’s how they do it in the movies.”

“Nahhh,” said Channah. “We just gotta get one thing.”

* * *

Cyril shifted his weight from foot to foot. Maybe just starting a riot was too much of a task to ask for. Had she ever done that before? Inciting a riot was a fairly easy task. But what if she’d never done it before.

“Prison,” said Officer Mike. “Is very lonely, and very, very cold.”

Cyril swallowed, trying to keep his face neutral. He noticed a couple of Templars peeling off from the second floor railing. “Where’re they going?” he asked Officer Mike. Mike made an unsure noise. Cyril saw a flash of light and heard a shriek from the other end of the Processing Plant. Officer Mike immediately drew his rifle, pulling it off his shoulder but keeping it pointed at the ground.

“Uh oh, Officer Mike!” said Cyril, craning to look over the lines, which were now roiling uneasily. “Looks like trouble!”

“Shut up, Exley,” snapped Officer Mike.

“No, really,” said Cyril, catching a glimpse of the chaos. “I really doubt you covered this in basic training.”

* * *

Channah brought her swing around in a tight arc, bringing the momentum around to crash into the side of a Templar’s head. It was pure luck that Templars of Justice hadn’t locked her staff up yet. They probably didn’t take it seriously. Hardly anyone did. It was bubblegum-indigestion pink, with a set of bird’s wings poking out of the warped wood halfway up, and crowned with an ornate ribbon and heavy crystal, which, admittedly, gave it momentum, but Channah always thought it looked stupid.

Autumn, on the other hand, was positively thrilled. “You’re so friggin’ cool!” she said in awe, hands clenched in front of her. “You’re like, Sailor Moon!”

“I don’t know what that is,” Channah muttered, taking aim at a second-floor Templar who’s hand was nearly behind their back and blasting them with a bolt of energy. “Get their gun!”

Autumn flinched at the sound of Channah’s staff blowing the guts out of the guard. God, he probably had a family. For something bedecked in wings and ribbons, that thing was scary-powerful.

“Apostato! Metu vian armilon malsupren!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“Which gun?” called Autumn, noticing a small hairdryer-shaped pistol strapped to an unconscious Templar’s belt. Channah momentarily glanced over, and shouted, “The small one!” The lines around them were rapidly falling into chaos, life forms of all strengths and sizes trying to get as far away from Channah and Autumn as they could. Templars were jostled out of position, and were calling for calm.

“Just shoot it! It’s a...fuck it, it's a time thing!” said Channah, her fingers tightening on the winding pink wood and staring around her at the pandemonium. Autumn pointed it at the floor, and squeezed the trigger. The mechanism made a _ker-WHACK_ sound that was nearly lost in the mayhem around them, and tore a hole the colour of toothpaste in the floor. Immediately, it spat out armloads of squashes the size of horses.

“Is that it?” asked Autumn, sounding disappointed. "It's a squash gun?"

“Fire more!” instructed Channah, cutting a path across the floor to Cyril’s cell.

 _ker-WHACK._ Giant Wasps.

 _ker-WHACK._ Endless, undulating arms.

On the third try, a horde of zombies came spilling forwards, in a surprised rush of “Braaaaains…?”

“Oh, whoops!” shouted Autumn, dancing out of their reach and racing after Channah.

* * *

Cyril tapped on the plexiglass, shooting Channah a hopeful grin. “C’mon, isn’t there something in your Sailor Senshi code about helping the wrongfully imprisoned?” he asked, trying his best to look the part. “Maybe,” said Channah disdainfully, the wings on her staff ruffling. “But I ain’t about that biz.”

“I’d owe you one,” said Cyril, the honesty making him want to cringe. Channah took aim, holding her staff one-handed and firing another bolt of energy into the plexiglass, nearly taking off the top of Cyril’s head. “Oops,” she said flatly, combing rubble out of her hair. “Little close.”

Autumn skidded to a stop beside the two of them, waving her time-thing gun enthusiastically. “This thing is so awesome!” she said, her eyes gleaming. Channah rested her staff across her shoulder. “Think you can get us outta here?”

Autumn took aim at the remains of Cyril’s cell, and pulled the trigger, tearing another hole in space-time. “Where’s it go?” asked Cyril, staring at it dubiously. “Uh, not prison?” said Channah giving Cyril a dismissive look.

“Works for me,” Autumn said, stepping through it and vanishing in a swirl. Channah shrugged, following after her and Cyril lagging behind.


	6. Tezuka's Pocket and French Toast

On the other end of the portal, Autumn, Channah, and Cyril fizzled back into existence and all three immediately doubled over.

“Take deep breaths,” advised Cyril, who was bent double with his hands on his knees. “Teleportation can make you pukey.”

Channah gagged, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth.

Autumn nodded, focussing on breathing through her nose. Her stomach momentarily flipped, and she retched.

“No,” said Channah, holding out a hand. “If you start puking, I’mma sympathy puke. Don’t do it.”

Cyril hissed in a breath and wiped his mouth on his hoodie sleeve, watching the portal dissipate into a small time-space blip and then righting itself back into discernible reality. He wasn’t sure why portal travel made people feel sick. He’d asked Dudley about it once, but Dudley never really answered questions like that. They’d landed in a darkened space between two buildings, a space so narrow that it would be generous to call it an alleyway, and one that was choked with garbage. The tiles under Cyril’s shoes felt vaguely rubbery, like an enormous non-skid shower mat. They were probably solar cells used for gathering energy. Which was good. That meant there would be sun, at some point. Far above them and seeming further away with the press of the buildings on either side, the sky was a hazy, streaky orange, and there was no way of knowing if it was dawn or sunset. Cyril clambered over the mountain of black plastic bags, praying to whatever happened to be listening that they held a minimum of corpses.

“Where are you going?” called Autumn, who seemed to be hesitant to follow him.

“Forget about it. Look, your boy seems a little,” said Channah, searching for the words as she rose up with a heavy grip on her staff. “I dunno. Addled?”

“His grandpa practically raised him in space,” said Autumn. “But I know what you mean.”

“Hey!” shouted Cyril, his voice ringing down the alley. “I know where we are!”

“Yeah?” called Channah, gingerly following him over the trash. “Where are we?”

Cyril squeezed out between the two buildings, grime smearing down the front of his hoodie. Kicking off a broken bag, Cyril spun, throwing his arms wide. “Welcome!” he thundered, “To! Tezuka’s!”

* * *

As many already know, Tezuka’s is one of the stabler universal overlaps of the multiverse. No matter if you were in universe A, B, C, D, Tezuka’s will be found in the same space-time. In other universes, however, Tezuka’s may be either two hundred light years here or there, which makes it difficult not only to locate, but difficult to visit. Many other universal overlaps result in genetic defects, time-space tears, and other catastrophic accidents that do not make them good vacation spots.

The original pivot point of Tezuka’s was discovered by none other than Beth Tezuka, who opened up a small breakfast café for interstellar travellers. And so Tezuka’s had grown from a small breakfast café with the best french toast in several universes to a space port, and from a space port to a series of interlinked metallic islands sporting the very best in touristy upsells.

* * *

“This is totally insane!” shouted Autumn. “Look at these buildings!”

The three of them had made their way into a wider road that had been cobbled with solar cells. Grungy brickwork with corroded fire escapes sat shoulder-to-shoulder with onion-domed mosques, which were towered over by elegant hotels designed to resemble boat sails. Minimalistic squared-off buildings crouched low to the pavement, with watercolour rococo-styled cathedrals sitting as sedate as teapots. It seemed as if every style in the last one hundred years had made its way here, and Autumn wished she had thought to snag her backpack so she could tag a few buildings.

“God, it’s so crowded,” muttered Channah, pulling her arms close to her body and using her staff as a walking stick. The deactivated cuffs on her wrists rattled with the movement. “We should get lost before somebody tips us back to the Templars.”

“Would you relax?” said Cyril, staring around Tezuka’s and looking oddly satisfied. “Who’s gonna find us here? It’ll take ages for them to check all the portals Autumn opened up, and Tezuka’s is enormous. Let’s go fucking shopping.”

* * *

High above the streets of Tezuka’s, and roughly three blocks away from Cyril, Autumn, and Channah, two best friends were sitting on the edge of a coffee house roof. They were technically not supposed to be up there, but after clambering over two fences, jumping two side streets, and nearly falling into a slipway, they felt pretty entitled to sit wherever they pleased. A beat-up, ancient silver jukebox had been scrounged up at one point during their jaunt across Tezuka’s islands, and was now thumping out Ice Cube. Nodding along to the song’s rhythm, one of the best friends was slumped against the lip of the coffeehouse, attention laser-focussed on a cracked tablet he held in his hands.

“See what I don’t get,” he said. “Is how we’re not rich like, right now.”

_Johnny-Chill-Out. Words-before-murds._

_“Szeszech-lah_ , I knooooow,” he said drawing the word out purposely. He raised a hand to chew on his thumb, staring vacantly over Tezuka’s. _“Mi Volas Batalial,_ Suplex.”

Suplex ignored Johnny, and reached over to bat Johnny’s hand out of his mouth, pushing Johnny’s spit-slimed hand to one of his many necklaces instead.

 _“T’tdar Betali iutagi,_ Suplex,” Johnny muttered, raising a necklace up to his mouth. Suplex snapped their fingers, bringing Johnny’s attention back to themselves. _I-don’t-care-how-rich-we-get,_ they said, hands fluttering effortlessly from word to word in a sign language cobbled together from English, Esperanto, and the creole Johnny spoke at home. _We-gotta-make-enough-to-support-us-and-that’s-enough._

“Yeah, but we could be ballin like gangsters,” said Johnny, fingers flicking across the tablet’s thick screen. “And gangsters are notoriously dope.”

Suplex laughed, form shivering a little bit. At this moment, Suplex had chosen to look like Johnny, and had mirrored so closely the two could be twins.

_Bones-itch. Gonna-swap-over._

“Go for it, player,” said Johnny, trying to refresh the news on the tablet.

Suplex stretched, torso and legs lengthening, and skin darkening from green to dark brown. Shaking their head from side to side, Suplex ran their hands through their hair, pulling it from bright red to a pastel blue. Standing up, Suplex stretched out another set of arms, swinging them in a circle to get the joints aligned.

“Ayyyy, we might have something here,” said Johnny excitedly, snapping his fingers. Ice Cube faded out, to be replaced with Beyoncé. Suplex popped their shoulders from side to side.

 _The-shoulders-feel-wrong,_ Suplex signed, tapping the second set where they stuck out from their torso. Suplex rolled their new form experimentally, swivelling their hips to the music, pushing their arms to the beat to test out their movement. _Wrong_ , said Suplex, shaking their head in frustration.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it,” said Johnny, bouncing with anticipation and flipping the tablet around. “But chuh-chuh-chiggity-check it out!”

Suplex flowed gracefully to their knees, pastel hair rippling like a jellyfish. _That’s-a-lot-of-Bits,_ said Suplex, rubbing an index finger and thumb together and grinning.

“You know it! I know it! Let’s go, Suplex, Tarra betalii!” shouted Johnny, flapping his hands excitedly. Unable to deny the sudden surge of glee and endorphins, Johnny grabbed onto the ledge behind him, and thumped down onto the coffeeshop balcony below to a chorus of terrified screams.

Suplex grabbed the boom box in one hand before delicately using their other five limbs to descend carefully.

* * *

They decided against splitting up, because, as Autumn put it, “I’m not having either of you get taken out by the space mafia or something and stranding my ass out here.”

“Don’t be stupid,” scoffed Channah. “I am the space mafia.”

“Oh my God,” said Cyril, folding his arms.

The three of them were wandering down one of Tezuka’s many winding streets. It seemed that they had got there in the early morning after all, as Tezuka’s seemed to be waking up like a partygoer after a particularly hard night. Bomb shields yawned open to reveal windows, and the grumble of clerks and chefs mixed with the sizzle of cooking breakfast.

“Alright, team,” said Autumn, trying to ignore the food cooking around them. “Any idea how to get the cuffs off?”

“Sure,” said Cyril, rubbing at his eyes. “We saw our hands off.”

Channah gave Cyril a dismissive look. “We’ve got no money, so Cyril might be the best idea,” she said, hands momentarily wandering over a rack of kebabs. “Pagu Supren!” snapped the vendor, swinging a fleshy tentacle at Channah, who yanked her fingers back just in time. “Filo du putino!” she hissed, jamming both hands immediately in her pockets, turning and walking backwards to maintain eye contact.

“What’re we gonna do about money? How’re we gonna eat?” fretted Autumn, running a hand through her hair and desperately wanting to shower.

“How to eat indeed,” said Cyril, running his fingers along a display of thorny orange fruits. “Look over there!”

Autumn followed his pointing finger to an enormous fountain. It seemed to be a model of a solar system, with different, detailed planets hovering around twin suns. Each planet gracefully bubbled water, the rising sun glancing off the water-slicked rose quartz of the fountain.

“Oh my God, that’s so sick. And gorgeous,” said Autumn, sounding torn between envious and impressed.

“Anything you say,” said Channah, surreptitiously shifting a full pocket. Cyril bumped into a furry-faced elf walking in the other direction, and was quick to throw up his hands in a no-harm-no-foul gesture.

“Guys, seriously, any plans besides cutting our hands off?” said Autumn, finally turning to look over her shoulder.

“Fuck if I know,” said Cyril, cracking through the skin of one of the orange fruits. Channah shrugged, pulling a whorl of meat off a skewer before tossing it in her mouth. “Did you guys steal all that?” said Autumn disappointedly, already knowing the answer.

“Course we did. What’d you expect? We’re broke?” said Cyril, leaning in to tear out the insides of the fruit with his teeth like a dinosaur. Channah offered up the rest of her kebab to Autumn, who reluctantly took it.

* * *

“Suplex, come on, how hard can it be?” Johnny called over his shoulder. He didn’t slow down, not giving Suplex a chance to answer. The two of them were trying to make back to where they left their ship. Or, at least, where Johnny thought they’d left their ship. Suplex had a hunch that it was on the third island, not the sixth, but Johnny probably needed to tire himself out before he got stuck in an enclosed space.

“It’s gonna be _suckah-bettali_ , Suplex! Sucker money! Think about that!” Johnny said gleefully. They turned a corner, and Johnny stopped dead. The swarm of the Belly’s Gate clothes market writhed and belched, clamoured with haggling, spitting, and clawing hands in search of bargain prices and knockoff designer gear.

“Oh,” said Johnny. “Uh oh.”

 _Hey-Chillax_ said Suplex, tucking a strand of hair behind their ear. _We’ll-go-over._

Johnny wasn’t paying attention, staring at the crowd with glassy eyes and raising a hand to his mouth to chew on it. Suplex sighed, reaching forwards to slide a necklace with a green mushroom charm on it into Johnny’s mouth instead. Suplex had bought those necklaces for Johnny for his last birthday. They were tough enough to withstand Johnny’s repetitive chewing but still malleable enough to bend between his shark teeth.

“Over?” repeated Johnny, sounding like he’d checked out momentarily. Suplex nodded, pointing up with two hands and tucking the boom box under their other arm.

* * *

“Cyril!” shouted Autumn. “Put that down!”

Cyril grimaced, tightening his grip on a black t-shirt that had _MY ANACONDA DON’T_ scrawled across the chest in light pink letters.

“I’m taking this,” he said gleefully, deliberately glancing over at Autumn.

They’d had mixed luck with theft, managing to snatch enough for breakfast, and were, on Channah’s suggestion, trying to find something that didn’t look like prison outfits.

“Would you look at this?” asked Channah, materializing out of the crowd at his shoulder to thumb through the haphazard pile of shirts. Folded neatly over one arm was a dress patterned with octopi and ink blots, bright green short shorts, and a lavender tank top.

“Those are so cute!” said Autumn. “Anything in a size eight? Maybe a twelve?”

“Girl, I got them for you! You’re useless out here.”

Tezuka’s clothing bazaar, located on the sixth floating island, was a mess of neon signs, all of them blinking rapidly in the darkening sky. The sun had finally risen to cast light on the tops of the mosques around them, and a further green sun was casting a watery eye over the horizon, as if condemning them for shoplifting. The throng around them seemed accustomed to the strange circadian cycles, and were focussed only on buying.

“Here,” said Autumn, tossing Cyril a hoodie with cat ears. “It’s totally you.”

Cyril grimaced. “No thank you.”

“Just wear some colour. Any colour. You look like a moody ninja.”

Channah nodded, folding a white t-shirt to slip into the hem of her pants.

“The inside of my hood is red. Red is a colour. Plus, this shirt has pink on it,” said Cyril, brandishing the t-shirt at Autumn. Autumn, however, had pushed through the roiling crowd to a rack of either authentic or high-quality knockoff Dionysus + Apollo gear and was rifling through a selection of fluffy skirts. She ducked under two Cronenbergian creatures who were fighting over a silk slip, hands outstretched for snatch-and-grab. Cyril watched her pick through different items, before deciding on one, and beckoning Channah over for a second opinion.

* * *

“Uh oh, Suplex!” shouted Johnny, trying to be heard over the crowd below them. Johnny was balancing precariously on the edge of the building, the heels of his wrapover-slippered feet hanging over the crowd. “I’m gonna fah-allll!”

Suplex quickly signed their best friend’s name before stepping closer. Their form rippled and warped with anxiety. _Johnny-be-careful!_ signed Suplex, their face softening momentarily into grey jelly before righting itself.

“Aw, Suplex! Look, if we can sell guns to gangsters,” said Johnny, taking a hopping step forwards. “And survived the slums of Amara Tero,” he added, swapping forwards to walk on his hands. “I don’t think I’m gonna fall off a roof.”

 _You’re-gonna-fall_ said Suplex, reaching towards Johnny to pull him away from the ledge.

“Puh-lease. May I remind you that I’ve also done super science with Dudley Akiyama? The Dudley Akiyama? I’m not gonna—“

Johnny, who had turned to walk backwards, had indadvertedly stepped onto thin air, and plummeted off the roof of the building.

* * *

It wasn’t the first time Cyril had been knocked to the ground by an unexpectedly plummeting object. It probably wouldn’t be the last. But this one seemed determined to not move.

“Wow! That really cleared my sinuses!”

Cyril squirmed, trying to shift the dead weight on top of him.

“My whole life flashed before my eyes! _Tagga Chiya,_ dude!”

The weight turned, shifted, rolling to sit up. Rough skin scraped across Cyril’s face.

“Get off me!” hissed Cyril, pushing hard. “Autumn! Help!”

Slowly, unwillingly, the weight moved off him, and Cyril was able to get a better look at it. It was an alien, although Cyril would be hard-pressed to tell the species. It had spiky quill-like hair dyed an unnatural red. Hell, maybe it was real. There was all sorts of diversity out in space. It—probably a he, thought Cyril—scratched at it’s neck, blunted nails rasping across rough, lime green skin. He made a small, panicked noise, flinching away from the crowds.

“They’re too close,” he muttered. Cyril’s translator chip picked up every word he said, and Cyril wondered what language he was actually speaking.

“You okay?” asked Cyril, slightly grudging. He didn’t see Channah or Autumn anywhere. The other guy glanced over at Cyril, not making eye contact. The mucous membranes around his hazel eyes were a brilliant blue, as was the inside of his mouth.

“Unnnnnngh,” groaned the other alien. “No crowds.”

His hands began to flutter at either side of his head like trapped birds before one of them made contact, slapping hard against the side of his skull. “Easy! It’s okay, it’s okay!” Cyril said, surging to grab onto the stranger’s hands and keep them pinned so he wouldn’t keep injuring himself.

“Cyril?”

Autumn!

Cyril stood awkwardly, holding onto the alien’s wrists. “Caught yourself a boyfriend?” asked Channah, smirking. She leaned against Autumn’s hip, while Autumn just seemed startled that Cyril had managed to find a whole person while they’d only been able to find clothes.

“Ha. Um. No,” said Cyril, cheeks colouring. Channah bit her lip and waggled her eyebrows. At that moment, a form leapt from the building above them, crashing to the solar-panelled streets with such force they cracked. The form reared up like a dragon, sunlight reflecting off chitinous plates. Long, dark hair hung lank on either side of a skeletal face that was bristling with gills and a snapping pharyngeal jaw.

“What are you doing!” The monster froze, momentarily, glancing down to the shouting red-haired alien. The crowd around them had frozen in fear, all of them staring mutely at the new creature in front of them. The monster’s hands twitched, and it sank low on it’s haunches, lowering itself from it’s seven foot height. It’s hands began to twitch, fingers wiggling and looping and spiralling.

“You have to be more careful, okay?” said the alien, breaking free from Cyril’s grip.

More finger signals.

The other alien shrugged, wandering back to Cyril.

“Y’all wanna make some money?” he asked, glancing between each of them, folding his arms and not making eye contact.


	7. A fistful of Cartwheel Juice

Threading through the tide of Belly’s Gate in a straight line, two very different conversations were happening in a short amount of space. In front, Johnny and Suplex conversed purely in sign language, while Channah and Autumn spoke quietly to one another. Alone and trapped between them, Cyril felt his guts boil with anger that nobody had thought to include him in anything. As they left the clothes market behind them the tall alien stepped away from the shorter, green one. It stretched its arms above their head, the edges of it’s chitinous plates softening into the flexible armour of a shrimp to a sunburst of freckles. Without warning it suddenly shrank two feet, deep cracks and pops reverberating through it’s skin, lank hair rippling into a glossy tied-off knot at the nape of its neck.

“What the fuck!” said Channah, recoiling, her eyes flicking to its companion.

“It’s okay,” said its friend. “They’ve done this before.”

Molding through a series of forms and painful-looking joint reconfigurations, it eventually settled on a dark-skinned, thick-lipped girl with three eyes, wrapped in a layered purple sarong. Its friend nodded, one hand raising absentmindedly to tangle in the plethora of necklaces he was wearing.

“What is that thing?” asked Autumn, her eyes wide with astonishment. 

“Don’t be rude. And their name is Suplex,” he said, giving Autumn a flickering, disdainful look.

“Who’re you guys supposed to be with?” asked Cyril, who seemed unfazed by Suplex’s shift in forms. “I mean, Suplex is, what, a Camellian, right? That’s why…they can shapeshift.”

They were crossing over between islands, pacing across a wide bridge, Suplex’s heavy footfalls made the solar panels flash alarmingly wherever they stepped. The crowd had thinned out considerably, and the sky overhead had lightened to a fresh-squeezed-paint blue. “We ain’t ‘with’ anyone, punk. We’re free agents,” responded the alien proudly, crossing his arms.

“Not with anyone, huh?” said Cyril, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. “I just, did anyone contract you? Send you with a message?”

Suplex tapped their friend on the shoulder, briefly conveying a message.

“Suplex says you’re waiting for somebody. Who?” said the alien, one hand beginning to tap out a rhythm on his thigh.

“My grandpa. He sent me a message, saying he was gonna send a contact out here.”

“You mean Dudley was gonna send someone?” asked Autumn, looking to Cyril with surprise.

“I dunno about messages anytime soon,” said Channah, shrugging. “Templars were really cracking down on shit when they caught me. Where the hell’re we going?”

“Nice little place that’s just over yonder,” said the alien, gesturing broadly to the spread of Tezuka’s many, many little places. Suplex tapped the alien’s shoulder, conveying a brief message. Their friend’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Oh! Yeah! Duh! Okay, I’m Johnny! I’m maybe sixteen thousand days old, I don’t like bananas or tomatoes and I don’t like my food touching or zippers. That’s enough, right?” he said, looking to Suplex for approval.

Suplex nodded solemnly, giving a thumbs up. Johnny shot back a shark-toothed smile, swinging his arms in circles. The movement made his pink jacket fan out like a small cape. The capsule on the back, embossed with **Good for Health, Bad for Education** wiggled with his enthusiasm.

“Nice stuff, dude,” said Channah, reaching forwards to run her fingers over the back of Johnny’s jacket.

“Thanks,” he said, twisting away from her hand. “I made it myself. I make a lot of clothes because I don’t like the feels of stuff. Also people pay me to,” he said, his voice oddly flat. Underneath the jacket, Johnny had an off-white tank top that looked like it had seen explosions and sharp claws, and loose-fitting pocket-riddled pants were tied up with a belt that looked like it had originally been jumper cables.

“Nice shoes,” said Channah.

“They are not for sale,” said Johnny, nodding.

“No, like, where’d you get them?” she said casually, swinging her staff to rest it across her shoulders. Johnny looked down at his shoes, which seemed to be made of an elastic bandage that went over the top of his foot and Velcroed to the sides. “Are they bad?” Johnny asked, glancing to Autumn, who shook her head. “Do they just, like, wrap around your feet?” she asked, the design reminding her of marathon runners back on Earth. _“Szeszech,_ I had trouble with my laces staying tied,” said Johnny, rising up on his toes. Autumn noticed the individual flex of what looked like eight digits, but decided to keep her mouth shut.

* * *

Breaking away from the main pathway, they followed Johnny through an alleyway, across a busy six-lane highway, and over a wooden fence to a run-down fifties-style diner, with the name ‘Vermillion’ looped across in flickering neon.

“Are you kidding me?” asked Cyril, who had nearly broken his collarbone trying to dismount the fence and was feeling grouchy.

“Why would I be kidding you? I love eating here! You only get sick every other time!” said Johnny happily, gnawing on a hard plastic bauble from one of his necklaces.

“Damn,” said Channah. “Can’t fight a deal like that.”

Autumn shrugged. She wasn’t really sure what to expect on this trip, but it seemed like everything was sort of possible, which was sort of awesome.

Breezing easily through Vermillion’s double doors, they were immediately noticed by an android standing behind the clean-edged counter, pouring a cup of coffee for a scarred-up cyborg who looked like they were coming off two thirty-hour night shifts. “Well, well, well! If it ain’t Mr. Good-For-Health, and Mix Bad-For-Education!” it said, stopping the flow of the coffee with a small wrist flourish. “Hey, whassup, Calvin?” Johnny responded, smiling widely. Suplex gave a curt nod, raising one hand in greeting. “Guess what? _Pre-patan betali_ , Calvin!” said Johnny enthusiastically, pumping his hands into the air.

“Oh? You say that every week. Johnny Bice and Suplex Pai, who’re gonna be rich enough to buy themselves a constellation. Maybe some of those Crimson Chips are gonna head my way, huh?” said Calvin, pulling a rag off one shoulder to scrub down the counter. If Calvin had the capacity to raise one eyebrow incredulously, it would have done that. Unfortunately, Calvin didn’t have eyebrows and had to settle for a slightly-more-sarcastic tone. Suplex made a non-committal hand gesture and shrugged. Calvin hissed in disapproval, although it could have easily been a circuit easily fizzling out.

“Say whatever you want, Calvin. Suplex and me, we’re gonna be big one day,” said Johnny, rapping his knuckles on the mint green counter. Calvin laughed, a noise that sounded like several piano keys being pressed at once.

“Can I get you and your new band of _šosoh-lah_ anything?”

“Hey, don’t be rude. And yeah, can you get us a big thing of onion rings and those weird little fried beetles I like? But can you put them in separate boxes? I don’t want them touching,” said Johnny, trying to illustrate the concept of separate boxes with hand gestures. Calvin, looking as unimpressed as it could, pulled a stylus out of a neck compartment and tapped out the order on its right forearm. “Anything to drink?” it asked.

“Coffee for them and like, my usual.”

Calvin nodded, made a clicking noise, and sauntered off navigating around the counter and through a set of double doors.

“Nice work on that one. Who’s his make?” asked Channah, looking to Johnny, who avoided making eye contact and chose to stare at her shoulder. “Hivecrescent. He used to be the CEO’s assistant but he _freneziĝis_ and quit.” 

* * *

 

Heading to a low corner table anchored with two chairs and four beanbags, they settled in and Johnny started talking again.

“So yeah, like I’m saying. Money,” he said, thumping down into one of the cushions and wiggling around, making the beans crinkle.

“How much?” asked Cyril, settling down gingerly on the beanbag across the table from Johnny.

“Big money. Eight Bee Riyals.”

Cyril’s jaw dropped. Channah thumped astride one of the chairs, eagerly waving Autumn onto a beanbag. Suplex knelt on the beanbag to Autumn’s right, giving her a disapproving look.

“Is that, like, a lot? Also, I don’t have a chip yet, so can we speak English?” said Autumn, folding her arms.

“Eight billion Riyals?” repeated Channah, resting her chin on the back of her chair. “What’s the job?”

Johnny reached into the side of his jacket, pulling out a cracked tablet. He quickly queued up a holographic image and slid it onto the table. “See, there’s this thing, it’s called the Infinite Book. It was meant to be handed over as like, this peace offering between the Goto Empire and the O.T.J. but someone jacked it,” said Johnny, rubbing a strand of shiny beads between his finger and thumb and staring at the light blue holograms his tablet was spitting out.

“So it’s just a simple steal-back sort of thing, right?” said Autumn.

“Certainly seems that way.”

Everyone jumped. Calvin loomed over the table, a wax-paper lined basket of onion rings in one hand, and a tray piled high with several cans in the other.

“Did you put them in separate boxes?” asked Johnny, his voice flat. Calvin slid the basket to the middle of the table, cutting through a holographic projection of a snub-nosed battleship and sliding a separate, smaller box of deep-fried circles to Johnny, who grunted a thanks. “These are for you as well. And I ain’t no doctor, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to fry out your brain with all those energy drinks,” said Calvin, effortlessly juggling the cans from the tray to the table, lining them up from shortest to tallest. Suplex waved it away, and Calvin drifted away with a “I’m only saying…”

“Are you gonna drink all that?” asked Channah, eyeing the lineup dubiously. Johnny had reached into his jacket and was pulling out something that looked like an empty glow-stick and a small container of glitter.

“No. I mix them first. It’s Cartwheel Juice,” he said, tapping glitter into the bottom of the stick. Autumn reached over, turning the cans to catch the names of the drinks in the dusty light of Vermillion’s. _Crashbangboom Orange Extreme. Java Lagoon Vanilla Ice. Mad Joke Baller’s Blend Red. Watermelon Bubble Fruit Infusion._

“Like any baller worth his shoes,” said Johnny, cracking open the Orange Extreme. “I managed to get a name of the guy who stole the book from an inside source. I’ve worked with him before.”

Suplex rolled their eyes and signalled Calvin to bring the coffee around.

“Yeah?” said Cyril, watching Johnny pour the Orange into his flask. Not a lot of aliens had jaws that closed, so the stick-flasks were the answer to that problem. It let aliens sock the stick as far back into their throats as they needed and not drool everywhere.

“Yeah. Dudley Akiyama. I traded him some guns for Touch once.”

Suplex smacked Johnny on the side of the arm, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Chill, Supes, I didn’t _take_ any.”

Suplex didn’t look appeased, but Johnny didn’t seem to notice.

“Holy fuck,” said Cyril gleefully. “We need to arrest Dudley?”

“You know him?” asked Johnny, who had opened up the Java Lagoon and the Baller’s Blend, pouring them into his flask like a bartender.

“He’s my grandpa. And if you’re after him, I’m with you, okay? I don’t care how dangerous it’s gonna be, I couldn’t pay for this kind of therapeutic breakthrough,” said Cyril, putting his hand palm up on the table.

“Shouldn’t that be a bigger moral issue to you?” sniped Channah, side-eyeing Cyril.

“Breaking news. Pot quickly identifies colour of kettle,” responded Cyril with irritation.

“Those words mean nothing to me,” said Johnny, sucking a drop of Baller’s Blend off his sleeve and reaching over to drag his fingernails over Cyril’s forearm. Autumn grabbed a handful of onion rings and bit into one, pulling out a slimy length of onion from the fried skin. “So is it gonna be dangerous or something? Why do you need us?” she asked, raising one hand to cover her mouth.

“Dangerous?” repeated Johnny, frowning. “I dunno about some kind of dangerous. But to get the Infinity Book it’s probably gonna take more hands than just me and Suplex.”

Suplex made a dismissive noise, tossing up an onion ring and snapping it out of the air with their tongue.

“Well, I’m in. I ain’t gonna pass up a fortune like that,” said Channah, tipping her chair to knock it against the table. She slapped her arm down, palm up, and Suplex grazed their fingers over her arm. Autumn hesitantly put her arm in, and Johnny’s fingertips grazed smoothly over her.

“Excellent, new crew,” said Johnny, shaking up his flask of Cartwheel Juice. “This is gonna be diesel.”

* * *

When the coffee was drunk and the bill paid, Channah was the first to stand up from the table.

“Hate to be that girl,” she said. “But I wanna put some words into my crew. This could be the last time I get to talk to em for a really, really long time.”

Suplex nodded, and Cyril muttered, “Bye Felicia,” with an expression of wide-eyed innocence. Channah gave him a close-lipped smile, the kind that definitely went nowhere near her eyes, and left Vermillion’s, heading back through the fake kitsch and out the doors to Tezuka’s.

Heading down the street, Channah kept her head up, making eye contact with everyone who walked past. Nobody was going to pickpocket her this afternoon, and anyone who tried would get a broken hand for trying. Nobody messed with her, or her friends. Speaking of friends….

A dark purple booth the size of a walk-in freezer was set up on the corner. Elbowing past another human with slicked-down green hair, Channah yanked the door open.

“Time’s up,” she said, glaring down the girl inside, who shrank away from her.

“But, I’m…” she trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the console in front of her.

“You giddafuck on outta here, is what you’re gonna do. I gotta get in contact with someone important.”

“Hey, you can’t speak to her like that!” said the green-haired man. Channah pulled her staff off her shoulders, pushing the tip of it between the man’s eyes. The two of them were silent, until the man stepped away, cursed her, and headed away, the girl scurrying behind him. Stepping into the booth and locking herself in, Channah punched in her relative coordinates, another matching set, and licked her thumb before pressing it to a touch screen next to the door.

“Call collect?” asked the booth in a cool female voice.

“Um, yeah. Collect?” she answered. Channah always felt like an idiot talking to nobody in these things.

“Please wait. Name?” asked the booth.

“Channah Maksi-wait, no, Kanoth. Channah Kanoth!”

“Please hold.”

The connection always took forever with these things, a relic of the Goto Empire technological advances. Sure, you could talk to anyone who had another communicator, but the connection would be patchy or filled with dial-up screaming. That is, if the other person picked up at all. Channah’s luck, however, seemed to still be holding out for her.

“Ugh, nahlow? It’s like, early?”

“Yo, Shakira,” said Channah, settling into a more comfortable position on the booth’s hard plastic seat.

“Channah! You ain’t arrested?”

“Nah, I ain’t for that walk,” said Channah, pushing her curly hair off her face. “Listen, get Nainai, Ada, Peony, and Akilah. Y’all ain’t gonna believe the shit I just heard.”

* * *

“What’s the big deal?” asked Johnny with exasperation, chewing on a stretchy charm in the shape of a dragon. “I’m not on it!”

 _You-knew! You-know-how-I-feel-about,_ said Suplex, pausing before picking at the inside of their arm.

“You mean Touch? Come on, I got rid of it really quickly. We needed the money,” said Johnny, glancing over to a 24-hr instalment stall. They agreed to give Autumn a universal translator chip, but she was leery about getting it, so Cyril was trying to coax her into it. _Touch,_ said Suplex, making the gesture again. _It’s-drugs. Do-you-know-what-it-does-to-people?_

“Heck yeah I do, Suplex, I’m not an idiot.”

Suplex gaped, all eyes blinking rapidly, before throwing their hands up with exasperation. Johnny’s brow furrowed, before he asked, “Are you joking mad or mad for real?”

_For-real. And-what’s-with-the-crew-biz?_

“Oh, relax-lah, we just need them to help us snag the book from Dudley. Then we sell it to the Goto Empire, and bang, boom, _betali_ , baby. We’re rich.” _Just-not-pay-them?_

“Well duh, it’s always worked before.”

* * *

Autumn gingerly touched the ear cuff. She flat-out refused to put the chip in her head, instead choosing to keep it in jewelry instead. It seemed to be working, and every single conversation seemed amplified.

“What’re you thinking about this?” asked Cyril. “About what?” she responded, noticing a bloom of graffiti chasing along the sidewalk at someone’s heels. Man, Tezuka’s was the coolest. The afternoon had blown in a little cooler than usual, but it wasn’t cold. It felt like June to Autumn, and it reminded her of ice tea and sun hats and the coconut smell of suntan lotion.

“I don’t trust them. Not Johnny or Channah,” said Cyril, shaking his head slowly. Johnny and Suplex were talking about something else not too far away. Johnny was leaning on a marbled statue of Nikola Tesla, who had raised a bolt of lightning and was poised to throw it.

“Aw, c’mon, Channah’s nice,” said Autumn vaguely, trying to figure out the kind of stone used for the statue by look alone.

“Whatever. Look, I’m just gonna hand Dudley over to the Templars, but I don’t care about what happens to the stupid book thing. It’s about damn time the old man knew how it felt,” said Cyril, scowling.

“If you’re not careful,” said Autumn, her hand drifting back up to fiddle with her cuff. “Your face is gonna stick like that.”


	8. Meanwhile, in a different plot point

Dudley ground his teeth. This whole thing just turned out to be an endless string of bad luck. With the Templars on one side and the Goto Empire on the other, Dudley felt very popular in a way he didn’t enjoy.

“And the worst part,” he said. “This isn’t even my fault. I just got burned like it's nobody's business.”

“You always say that,” said the bartender, topping up Dudley’s cup of Oregano Sour. Dudley tapped it twice against the counter, before draining most of it in a swallow. He winced, the molten, rotten-tasting concoction momentarily searing his throat.

“But this time, Peggy,” he said. “I’m less responsible, this time.”

Peggy clicked her tongues in disapproval, shaking her head. Peggy was pretty enough, with striking orange skin and thick red hair tied down in cornrows.

“I’m jussayin’, Doctor. You oughta treat that kid better,” she said, stacking glasses behind the bar. The Nonstalgic Shipmate was a dive, and empty but for Dudley and Peggy. But, then again, bars located on potato-shaped asteroids were never exactly hot spots for anyone except for people who wanted to drink and bitch about their bad decisions. “What’m I supposed to do? I don’t know how to raise a kid. Barely raised Tomoko, mostly left her with the wife,” said Dudley, rubbing a hand across his broad forehead.

“Uh-huh? How’d that work out for you?” asked Peggy, glancing over at him. Dudley grimaced, scratching at the back of his right calf with his left foot. It made his bar stool wobble a bit, but that might’ve just been from Dudley’s weight.

“Y’know, I heard some stuff from a Templar scanner,” said Peggy eagerly, casting her eyes towards Dudley. Dudley grunted, and finished off the rest of his Oregano Sour.

“It’s about your son,” she added conspiratorially, reaching into a bucket of water for a rag. The water steamed around her wrist, emitting small clouds when she twisted the cloth between her hands.

“My son?” repeated Dudley, eyeing Peggy beadily.

“Oh, yeah. Nearly got himself booked, too. There’s a warrant on him,” she said gleefully, folding the rag into a square and slapping it down on the sticky counter.

“Yeah, what else is new?” said Dudley, reaching over the bar for a different bottle.

Peggy laughed, scraping at a troublesome spot at the bar with a gelatinous finger. “Hey, at least he’s got off Earth, and he certainly takes after you.”

Dudley's fingers rattled off a heavy bottle, and he settled back in his chair. “I bet he left his medications at home, too,” he muttered, then added, "That unbelievable tool."

Peggy made a noncommittal noise and hopped the bar, making a beeline for a mop and bucket. Dudley watched her go. Lord, if only he was younger. And Cyril! Cyril! Why couldn’t Junior make anything easy? But, oh, no, always had to do things in the way that attracted the most attention. It was like he understood, sometimes, he understood and he purposely did things like this.

Dudley braced his head in the palm of his hand, staring watching Peggy mop the floor. He needed to bail Cyril’s ass out again. God, the kid forgot to take his meds half the time, even on Earth. Who the fuck forgets medication somewhere where nothing ever happened? He’d meant to send a messenger to Tezuka’s to at least give Junior some kind of headway, but it turned out Dudley was still a half-step behind the Book.

“I have to go collect my idiot grandson,” said Dudley, thinking about the grisly fate of the last messenger.

“Congrats on the basic carbon-based decency,” called Peggy, wringing the mop out.

“Don’t thank me. The Templars’ll probably send him to Vega Twelve, or wherever the fuck they send juvenile delinquents now, and the goddamn Gotos are gonna eviscerate him if they ever get their hands on him,” said Dudley, drinking directly from the bottle, and coughing.

“What about your guy?”

“He’s not ‘my guy,’ Peggy. When I catch him, I'm going to turn him inside out like a sock.”

“Don’t be like that. Everyone gets hustled, Dudley,” said Peggy amicably, examining her work. The Shipmate’s floor was made of ratty linoleum coloured in an unenthusiastic green. It was now slightly cleaner in a wide, wet band, and Peggy set up a sign that broadcasted ‘Wet Floor’ in twelve different languages. “Nobody hustles me!” sniped Dudley, gesturing with the bottle.

“If you get that on my clean floor I will end you.”

“Nobody!” said Dudley again, shaking his head. He dug in the pocket of his sweatpants and put a small handful of Riyals on the bar. “You can’t drive drunk,” said Peggy, giving Dudley a judgemental look.

“The universe is full of surprises, Peg.”

“Dudley, come on. Be a better person for those stupid kids of yours,” said Peggy, folding her arms. The holographic ‘wet floor’ message spun through her, slicing in half to merely ‘We Oor.’ “Good talk, Peg,” said Dudley, making sure to step through the clean section of the floor on his way out, waving the automatic door open with a swish of Oregano Sour.


	9. In Gardens

With a sigh, the Goto Empire’s former aspiring necrobiology apprentice Rhys Neeson combed his hands through his hair. He hadn’t slept in three days, or whatever passed for three days on this stupid moon rock. Which was different from the last stupid moon rock, and the escape pod wouldn’t last forever. Already it was starting to complain about the short trips between planets. All the new products Rhys made had stopped cooperating long ago, and he’d had to dispose of them quickly and efficiently. The few he’d managed to pull together from the Timeskip were workable. Sort of. Kind of. Barely. They answered when summoned. He’d left the worst behind on Planet Twenty-Two anyway.

But three days! Three days of nothing but instant yeast, of blood draws and marrow pulls and not a single good result. The fact was terrifying, and carried the same crippling sort of terror that he saw in Goto-sponsored academic training. He had passed those, thank God, as some would say. But Rhys had seen the results of those who hadn’t. They smelled like sour milk and had arms striped with wounds, the crooks of elbows and fingers dotted with needle marks like constellations. Swamped with books and going bald, the students would drift into corners with textbooks and endless cups of tea, scuttling to hide in the shadows of the rock garden or down in the Citadel stacks. And then one day they would disappear and nobody would ever mention their names again.

No, that never happened to Rhys. Rhys had ambition. Rhys had cunning.

There was no panic to be found on this dead rock.

He was going to die of Hepatitis, at the bottom, and he’d never get what he wanted, oh, God, it was unfair, it was all so unfair—

“Poor thing. Poor, smart, wonderful boy. Who could of thought that sour blood would lay you so low?”

Bobby’s voice seemed to lilt and crawl through the air, vibrating like a half-formed connection. Rhys fought the urge to twitch off the sudden pressure on his shoulders. Bobby carried that feeling with them. It. Sentient chaos cloud goop. Usually Bobby only stuck to slinking around through the dark, being out at this time of day must be very new and exciting for Bobby. 

“It’s not my fault,” Rhys said, trying his best to not sound like a child. “I’ve just pulled too much and my blood’s gone sour. I need a donor.”

“Ohhhh? A donor, you say?” drawled the voice. It sounded distantly interested. A _dooooonor_ , yooooou say?

“I need different blood.”

“I told you to keep the crew alive. But ooooh noooo…”

Rhys’s vision crowded with black dots that swirled like moths. This was also normal. At least, for now. Soon, after Rhys had everything he needed, there’d be a body for the Bobby-thing, which sometimes spat out different names. Miranda. Dinah. Sometimes, just a low hiss like a broken heater.

Really, the sooner he got away from that  _voice_ and that  _slither_ the better. 

 “I wasn’t being a brat. I needed the bones. Akiyama’s gonna have enough—“

Rhys felt a derisive twitch at the corner of his jaw. “Daichirou Akiyama! Puh-leeeease! He’s just a human,” Bobby drawled. A grinding tone had entered Bobby’s voice, something that reminded Rhys of gizzard stones.

Rhys scratched at the back of his neck. “So am I, Bobby.”

“Not after this. After this, you’ll be bigger than just a _huuuuman_ anyway. Akiyama will be dead, and you’ll have the Goto Empire begging you to take you back, oooonly for _yoooou_ to crush them under your heeels.”

“I can’t,” said Rhys miserably, staring up at the sky, which was darkening to a dusk the colour of nasty bruising. Nighttime already? The days really went fast on this godforsaken rock. A wind picked up, skimming over the flat, muddy plain to his right. It used to grow rice, once, a long time ago. Now it grew other things.

“You can’t? You? Can’t?” asked Bobby, the voice momentarily warping with mocking incredulousness..

“Sour blood. It messes up the blood magic,” said Rhys. He debated laying down on the edge of the field and taking a nap. Oh, a nap would be a miracle right now.

“Don’t you worry about that. I can cure _allllllll_ your ills. Besides,” said Bobby, and Rhys felt a sudden squeeze on both his shoulders. If Bobby actually had corporeal hands, he’d probably be digging his fingers in. A patch of the water-soaked plain in front of them began to bubble, before white fingers flailed to break the surface. “Step by step, row by row,” recited Rhys. “I will make this garden grow.” It had been part of an old nursery rhyme, back when he was still a little kid learning the basics, but now it took on a different meaning. He’d started reciting it back when he and Daichirou or Dudley or whatever he called himself now worked together. That thought made his stomach flip with wrath. He’d get even with Daichirou for everything, oh, yes he would.

“Yessss,” hissed Bobby in agreement, the pressure coming up to squeeze Rhys’ jaw. The fingers in the mud stretched towards the setting sun, bringing forth a wrist and forearm held together with thick white roots. Rhys gazed over the swamp, spotting several other writhing forms. There was nothing to worry about. It was just a garden, after all. 


	10. Hype

On Tezuka’s egg-shaped third island, Channah, Autumn, and Cyril stared up at their new ship in silence. The spaceport of Port Solange bustled around them, heaving and swelling with porters, luggage, and new arrivals. Massive leaderboards spat out arrival and departure times, numbers and names cycling dizzyingly and endlessly. Massive twisting columns styled to look like enormous trees in shades of non-offensive grey marched down each aisle, the ceiling intricately woven to allow beams of sunlight to stream through to the floor below. The hubbub of Port Solange was absorbed in part by the ceiling, but pieces of conversation still reverberated down the hallways like personal conversations held in libraries.

“Well,” said Cyril, trying to keep his voice at a moderately-indoor volume. “It could be worse?”

“I think it looks fine,” said Autumn with authority, giving Cyril a stern look.

“Autumn, I mean this in the nicest way possible,” said Channah, wrinkling her nose. “But you don’t know shit.”

Johnny’s ship, an older-model Zipcraft, had a stingray-shaped body and balanced precariously on feet shaped like the claws of a praying mantis. Zipcrafts had gone out of fashion in the mid-1980’s, due to an unfortunate design flaw that caused the steering mechanism to lock and refuse to take off, or the braking mechanism to fail altogether. Johnny’s Zipcraft, which had been painted clashing shades of bright orange, hot pink, violet, and lime green, sat with a sort of resigned dignity, the name written clearly in two-foot-tall letters.

“All aboard The Hype,” said Cyril, smirking.

“I think it used to be called something else,” said Channah, tilting her head back and squinting her eyes at The Hype’s title. There was another name under it, the faint dark outline of letters barely visible under the hull’s violet paint.

“Yo! Quit gawking and help!” shouted Johnny, the volume of his voice not at all dampened by the tree-shaped columns. He took a running start and slid down The Hype’s loading platform cable, his momentum carrying him in a tight arc. The Hype, unlike most Zipcrafts, was outfitted with a tidy platform that dropped and rose on an industrial-strength cable. It seemed quicker than a simple loading ramp, provided you only carried things that wanted to be lifted.

“Where’d you find that thing anyway?” called Cyril to Johnny, sauntering over.

“Ganked it from some guy,” said Johnny indifferently. “He sent Suplex to bite me and tried to get me to off Suplex.”

“Didn’t take you for the hitman type,” said Channah.

“Well, yeah, only sometimes. Suplex’s got majorly rare DNA, so it helps to hawk it and pay the bills. Hitwork’s only when we’re in a harsh kind of way,” said Johnny, snapping his fingers. “You guys seen Suplex?”

* * *

Suplex was headed away from one of the Limboriums that dotted the ports. Set up by the Official Templars of Justice in the early days of Earth-based interstellar travel, Limboriums stashed stuff from books and movies to plays and music, provided you wrote your name down and gave it back at the next port you hit up. Weighted down under four heavy crates, Suplex cradled two under one arm and had balanced the other two on top of their head. The setup didn’t allow for much talking, but that wasn’t a problem. To balance out the weight Suplex had to grow out a little bit, tipping out at nine feet tall.

“Hey, c’mon, give us a smile.”

“What, you too good for us?”

Suplex ground their teeth. They knew they looked damn good, accurate too, as a matter of fact. They had gone with lavender skin offset by pale, braided hair, with flared gills that branched out from their eustachian tubes. Now scowling bitterly, Suplex walked haughtily past a knot of wolf-whistling Ecronians, whose membranous head-fins stood upright as they continued ogling Suplex. “Hey, what’re you supposed to be?” asked one of them, falling away from his cronies. His mustard-yellow skin was mottled with patches of grey, and their bulbous eyes leaked clear fluid. Probably just an allergic reaction to oxygen. Keeping in step with Suplex, he scurried around to waddle backwards in front of Suplex, eyes crawling over their bare midriff. “You look a little Iliovarran to me. You an Ilio? _Pedas-ce Ilio?”_ he said, motioning for his friends to come over. Now surrounded by Ecronians like a gaggle of slimy goslings, Suplex stopped, sighing heavily.

“No way they Ilio,” said another Ecronian, blinking rheumy eyes at Suplex. “Bet you’re Camellian.”

The first Ecronian guffawed. “That’s really hot. Because I’m super into that, y’know. I mean, it’s sort of hot, the way you can be anything I wa-“

Suplex pivoted on their right foot, bringing their left around tight arc into the Ecronian’s armoured side, waves of impact roiling across the Ecronian’s fleshy underbelly. The force of Suplex’s roundhouse knocked the Ecronian off his feet and into the one next to him, sending both sailing through the halls of Port Solange. The first one landed in a gelatinous alien, where he submerged like a fly in amber. The second was airborne far longer, careening gloriously sideways through beams of light before crashing into the branches of a pillar tree and sliding to the bottom with a noise of pain. Wobbling momentarily to get the crates back in balance, Suplex bugged their eyes out and jerked their head to the side, signalling the other aliens to move. They scrambled out of Suplex’s way, cursing them out in a variety of languages.

“We’re gonna bring the Temps down on you, Camellian! There’s a reason you guys are extinct!” spat one of them before striding off on stumpy legs to disentangle their friend from the jellylike alien. Suplex took a deep breath and didn’t turn around.

* * *

Johnny had taken them all aboard The Hype, and everyone was trying to find the best place to settle in. “Not there, player,” said Johnny after Channah tried to crack a door open. “That’s the arts n’ crafts room.”

“So what? Nobody’s allowed in there?” asked Channah contemptuously, leaning against the wall. _“Mal’szesze,”_ said Johnny, shaking his head, his hair rustling with the movement. “I’m allowed in there.”

Wandering around the dark blue metallic hallways of The Hype, Cyril found a slightly-open maintenance hatch. Slipping through it easily into the capillary tunnel behind it, Cyril dug his feet into the metal slats that lined the floor, and pulled the hatch door closed. The darkness was oppressive, and the space narrow. Feeling along the wall, Cyril felt the indentations of what was probably safety lights, although they weren't on. Cyril began to climb up the slats, carefully measuring the distance between them. The maintenance capillary seemed to slope upwards slightly, giving the feeling of a bicycle tire. It was a fairly easy concept, designed to combat anti-gravity conditions. The momentum of clambering through the capillary along with the shape of the hallway would be enough to keep you to where your hands and feet needed to be, provided you didn’t run into anyone. Cyril brushed up against the wall, feeling a rubber door seal rub against his shoulder. Smacking it with the heel of his hand, it cracked open slightly, letting in a sliver of light. Pushing it open further Cyril hauled himself up and into the bridge of The Hype.

The bridge was immediately disappointing, looking more like someone had tried to create a cozy living room in the middle of a submarine. A greenish-orange pullout couch had been bolted to the floor, and numerous beanbag chairs had been squashed around a low fixed table. A set of narrow steps ran up from the room to a blast door, which probably led to the interior of The Hype. Various pieces of technology and weaponry had drifted up in the corners and edges of the room, with a microwave and hot plate standing above the wreckage on a blocky mess of two-by-fours. Tentatively nudging a precarious-looking pile of what looked to be wooly sleeping bags into a slightly-less-precarious pile, Cyril turned, swivelling towards the actual control centre of The Hype, where it dipped down at the front between the claws of the outer body. He took one step forward, and then the door at the top of the stairs opened with a pop.

“Hey, Cyril!” called Autumn, dumping an armload of clothes and a blanket at the top of the stairs. “Suplex brought back a ton of stuff, and also they totally kicked a dude so Channah’s trying to break up a fight.”

“Sounds good,” said Cyril, not taking in a word of what she said.

“What a mess. Still, though, this is kind of incredible, y’know? I mean, aliens, and space, and also, like, spaceships? It totally hasn’t sunk in for me yet, it’s just, Oh-muh-Gawwd?” said Autumn, heading down the steps. Cyril had headed down a slight incline to the main seat of The Hype, and had braced one hand on the pilot’s seat. The material reminded him of the chairs at the dentist. Letting his gaze wander over the controls, Cyril noted multiple other additions, such as green fuzzy dice hanging off the edge of what looked like a multi-segmented toaster oven, and numerous shorthand notes taped to various dials and buttons.

“I like the ship,” said Autumn happily, flicking at an octopus-faced figurine wearing a hula skirt that was suction-cupped to a speaker. “It feels sorta lived in.”

“You mean messy,” responded Cyril, momentarily looking over the hula-dancing octopus. Autumn laughed, and nodded, slightly grudgingly. Cyril felt a small spark of hope. Maybe he didn’t need Dudley. Autumn would look out for him. Autumn and her sunny, take-it-easy attitude, she would look out for him. Dipping a hand into his front hoodie pocket, Cyril felt along the underside of a blister pack of pills. There might not be a lot left, but it would be okay, he’d be okay, this would work out.

“Anyway,” said Autumn, taking a big step away from the pilot’s chair. “Dibs on the room.”

“Aw, what! You can’t do that! You bewitched me with octopi!”

“Too bad, sucker,” said Autumn gleefully. “You see what I did there? Sucker? Octopus? Enh?”

“You are the worst, Bellsworth,” said Cyril, rolling his eyes. “Now I gotta set up somewhere else.”

“Don’t worry, The Hype is enormous, you’ll find somewhere,” said Autumn, heading back up the steps and grabbing her ill-gained merchandise from Tezuka's, casting it down onto the ugly couch below with a flourish. Cyril felt something rise in him, something awful and seething and angry, and he bit back on it. The room didn’t matter, and being mad about it was stupid. Why couldn’t Autumn just let him have this room, why did she always have to make everything hers, why was she doing so well out here, didn’t she know it was terrifying, and all of this was terrifying? Cyril exhaled with force, feeling it empty his diaphragm.

“I’m gonna go look around,” he mumbled, heading up the stairs and up to the blast door, squeezing past Autumn. “Suit yourself,” she said, jumping down the last couple steps and bustling over to fold up her clothes and blankets.


	11. Lifdoff

“Oh-kay,” said Channah, holding her hands up. “Nobody is punching anyone. If anyone is going to be punching anyone, it’s gonna be me, and y’all can get in single-file line.”

The five Ecronians grumbled and shifted closer, with all the disappointment of a lynch mob with wet torches. “That thing kicked Bethub,” said one of the Ecronians, staring Channah down with gelatinous eyes. His stomach was literally spluttering with indignation, his bulbous stomach tensing and contorting with accordion-like dexterity, and making a series of what sounded like aggressive whale calls.

“Okay,” said Channah skeptically. “So Suplex just wandered over and decked you, is that it?”

Flanking on her right side, Johnny was standing remarkably still and silent, with one hand behind his back. Suplex was on her left, gills bristling and one hand pulling one of their braids. She wanted to tell Johnny to keep his hands out, but she had a feeling he was carrying some kind of weapon tucked into either a belt or back holster. Either a gun or knife, mostly likely. Probably a gun. Looks like she’d better play nice, smooth this nonsense over, and hustle everyone on board and book it.

“Yeah, pretty much,” said the Ecronian casually, scratching one shoulder. Suplex’s upper lip curled, baring a tertiary row of teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Channah, shooting Suplex a look. _You_ _put_ _those_ _damn_ _things_ _back_ _in_ _your_ _face_ _right_ _now._ She was not going to go to jail, she was not going to go to jail. Channah flashed the Ecronian a megawatt smile, the kind that she usually paired with getting out of Templar fines.

“Everyone knows Camellians are practically animals. They’re dangerous. Hard-wired for violence,” piped up one of the Ecronians near the back, who was drenched in some kind of clear jelly. “That’s totally bogus!” snapped Johnny, his voice undercut with a wasplike buzz. Channah held up a hand, making hard eye contact with Johnny, who immediately looked away, bringing his back hand up to tangle in his necklaces. She almost had it, this situation was ugly, but she could work it, it would be fine.

“Look, I’m really sorry this happened,” said Channah evenly. “But we’ve gotta get wheels up right now or else we’ll get deadlocked until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we don’t exactly have time right now either,” mused an Ecronian from the back. “The game’s gonna be on soon.”

“Oh yeah! Hey, Oglif, who’s on tonight?”

Suplex snapped their fingers, and then carefully spelled out both teams. “Uh, Daiyoh Hustlers versus Tesla-three Krakens?” supplied Johnny, looking to Suplex for confirmation. Suplex tapped the side of their nose. “Man, we’re gonna get killed,” said Bethub morosely. “Hustlers got who, Adebisi, Bertoli, and Tortuga, right?”

_“Szesze-lah_ you are,” said Johnny. “Hustlers got all the players worth caring about.”

“The only reason they’re winning is because they’ve got the funding,” said Bethub, rubbing one side and wincing. “Think I might have some fractured cartilage over here.”

Channah chose to cut in. “So we’re good? We all good here?” she said, getting ready to hustle Johnny and Suplex back onto The Hype and hopefully far and away before the Templars showed up. A ripple of grudging assent went through the group of Ecronians.

“All the same,” said one of them, Oglif, maybe. “Keep that thing on a shorter leash.”

“Will do,” said Channah brightly, smiling so wide it felt like she pulled something. “Buh-bye now.”

* * *

“I didn’t know we’re gonna get deadlocked,” said Johnny, stepping back onto the loading platform. Channah stepped on next to him, grabbing onto the cable as it began its ascent. “We’re not,” she admitted. “But I really want to lay low until we get outta here. Good thing they avoid confrontation.”

Johnny prodded at the inside of his mouth with his tongue, watching as Suplex agilely leapt up onto the platform next to him, the cable groaning at Suplex’s sudden added weight. “You! _Tarra_ _Ahos’a?”_ asked Johnny. Channah rubbed at the skin behind her ear. “Was that for me? My chip isn’t picking it up,” she said, stepping up onto the loading bay of The Hype. The cabled platform clunked to a halt behind her, smoothing seamlessly into the floor.

“Creole. Also, I don’t remember your name?” said Johnny. His mouth moved differently from the words Channah heard, like a badly-dubbed foreign film. An unfortunate side-effect of translation chips, but hey, at least they could understand each other.

“Channah. The other human dude is Cyril and the blonde girl is Autumn, I think?” she supplied.

“Cyril, Channah, and Autumn. Got it,” said Johnny, popping a crocodile charm into his mouth. Suplex stepped away from the platform, hair shrivelling into an asymmetrical bob. With a tight nod, they strode off down an adjacent hallway, the pneumatic door clunking shut behind them. Johnny shifted weight from one foot to another before suddenly releasing a solemn “Wheels up.”

* * *

Mired deep in the hallways of The Hype, Cyril popped another door open, jamming it with his shoulder. He’d already passed by a med bay, or at least, a medical counter, a very small kitchen, and now here, what must be the engine room. Everything on the ship seemed to be designed to move through, moved around, or moved under. There seemed to be a lack of sharp corners, overall. Hearing a set of heavy footfalls, Cyril ducked into the poorly-lit engine room, staying quiet as Suplex thundered by. Whatever got them in such a snit, Cyril wanted no part of. He could make out vague outlines of various pipes and machinery, and he fumbled his way forward, sinking to his hands and knees. He didn’t need to, but if he wanted to crawl around in the engine room, who could stop him? One of Cyril’s hands depressed onto a section of the floor, and the lights of the engine room flickered on.

The room was lit by UV light, probably to better spot for leaks, or something vaguely spacey and sciencey. Cyril ducked under a bright orange pipe and threaded into a maze of glowing machinery. Swinging up onto a vent that ran parallel to the floor, Cyril tried to see how deep the room was and failed. A rhythmic thumping began, shuddering through the floor. It felt more like a stereo of some type than the engine booting up. Maybe it was from Suplex’s room. Clambering off the vent, Cyril crept, rolled, and belly-crawled over the floor until he got to a small space between a gel-filled pipe the thickness of his forearm, and a bank of humming dark-blue cubes.

“Here,” said Cyril to nobody, rolling onto his back. “I’ll stay here.”

At that moment, the lights went out.

“Fuck!”

* * *

Johnny grabbed the emergency door release, twisting it to release the bay doors to the bridge. The regular punch card had never worked, and after a while the siren for the emergency release burned itself out. Jumping the stairs down from the bay doors to the bridge, Johnny rolled with the impact, straightening up to leap the couch. “Whoa!” shouted Autumn, more of a warning than anything else. She had been lying on the couch, and had startled further into the cushions. Johnny ignored whatever it was she wanted, and swung himself into the pilot’s seat, rolling his shoulders into the fabric. He ran his hands over the controls, eyes settling over the shorthand notes he and Suplex made for the different controls. Running his hands over the kill switch panel, Johnny tapped in the launch code, ready for the steering controls to unhitch from the floor with a hiss of steam. They didn’t, instead making a strained whirring noise. Johnny brought down his heel on the rusted panel between them, jarring the controls loose to pop up on either side of his armrests.

“Are we leaving?” asked Autumn from behind him. “Hey, Channah, I had the couch first!”

“Fight me! I claim the couch for the goddess Ruwidione, may her justice be swift! Ow!” shouted Channah, trying to kick Autumn from a lying down position.

“Yo, here we go,” called Johnny as a warning, locking his fingers around the controls, gently pulling back to navigate the ship out of his dock. “Whoa,” said Autumn, spreading her feet into a sturdier base. “Are we lifting?”

“Barely,” said Channah, kicking a beanbag into Autumn’s calves. The floor underneath their feet began to pulse with a steady thudding as insistent as a fist against a door. Autumn could feel the ship floor listing from side to side underneath her, and it reminded her of being on a city bus in the winter. “I think the rearview’s busted,” said Johnny, leaning forward to peer at a dark screen on the control panel. “Hope I don’t hit anything.”

The repair capillary door bumped open, and Cyril hoisted himself up onto the floor of the bridge. A bruise was beginning to bloom near his hairline, mixing with the healing burns on his face. “The hell happened to you?” asked Channah. “I dunno,” responded Cyril quickly and with no enthusiasm. He scrambled to his feet and headed over to the pilot outlet, staring out the windscreen at the slowly diminishing Port Solange. Johnny carefully backed the ship out of the bay, carefully turning it like a parade balloon.

“Hey, you, fighting over the couch but doing nothing,” said Johnny, not turning around, hands frozen to the controls. “I elect you co-pilot in Suplex’s absence. So like, assistant co-pilot.”

“Who, me?” asked Channah, perking up.

“Nah, the other one. She hasn’t done much yet.”

Autumn blinked, goggling momentarily. “I’ve got my learner’s permit?” she volunteered.

“Yeah, don’t worry about that,” said Johnny, grabbing onto the steering sticks. “It’d just be baller if someone else knew how to fly.”

Channah audibly cleared her throat, but got no reaction.

The Hype turned slowly as Johnny pulled into a very slow three-point turn. He glanced over at Autumn before nodding down at the steering sticks that had popped out of the floor. “So it’s like,” he said, “It’s like, you pull for up, push for down, and opposite ways for turns.”

“What?” asked Autumn, glancing over to Cyril, who shrugged and settled in to one of the beanbags. Johnny had wrapped his hands around the steering sticks and was using them to angle The Hype into an ascent. “And you don’t _tarr’a_ - _lah_ _t’dar_ _exila_ until you get enough lift to be a worry," he said, dipping his head down to scoop a necklace charm into his mouth. The Hype peeled away from Tezuka's, lifting up easily and heading off through the atmosphere.

“That doesn’t help,” said Autumn despondently, watching Johnny grip at the controls. Her eyes roamed again over the buttons on the control panel and Johnny’s shorthand notes. This was a lot more complicated than driving Aunt Linda’s Volvo. “Check it out, player,” said Johnny, nodding towards The Hype’s windscreen. Autumn held onto the back of Johnny’s chair, and The Hype increased it’s angle of ascent, heading steeply away from Tezuka’s now. Behind the pilot’s chair, Cyril’s beanbag began to slide across the floor.

“Whee,” said Cyril, folding his legs in to reduce friction. “Adventure.”

Channah shifted on the couch, glancing out the windscreen. “You guys never seen Templar Ring Scanners before?”

Templar Ring Scanners, when viewed against space and Tezuka’s rapidly fading stratosphere, looked like plastic jelly bracelets lost by titans on the way to a local rave. Used as a measure to speed up ship registration, multiple ships could sail through the scanners with license, registration, and owner showing up on multiple system on landside screens on the planet below. Originally, it was to deter terrorism and crime, but now it was mostly a headache that swallowed endless time and resources.

The Hype blasted through the first bright yellow ring, a quick beep sounding from what looked like the modified toaster oven to Johnny’s right. “When it gets to four, can you switch it on?” asked Johnny, keeping The Hype steady. Around them, far-off stars began to bloom as ice began to form on the edges of The Hype's windscreen. “When what gets to four?” asked Autumn, “Four beeps?”

“You know it. That means we’re high enough away to activate it.”

“She doesn’t even know anything,” griped Channah. “I wanna be co-assistant step pilot or whatever.”

“What’s it do, then?” asked Cyril, shuffling his bean bag back into the centre of the room, next to the bolted-down table. “Pop question for ya, Channah.” “It’s the Whipjack drive, duh,” said Channah, shooting Cyril a withering look. “It lets you warp.”

“Wait, what? How’s that even possible?” asked Cyril, sounding incredulous.

“I dunno. Nobody really knows unless you’re like, super smart and shit,” said Channah, stretching her legs over the back of the couch.

They sailed through another ring, this one coloured a vibrant purple. The Whipjack drive let out two beeps. “What happens if we warp it now?” asked Autumn, crouching to hold onto Johnny’s chair. Johnny let go of one of the steering clutches and popped a necklace out of his mouth and muttered, “We’ll get a ticket.”

“That’s it?” asked Autumn, feeling the floor pitch again underneath her. Some of the stuff that had been rolling around earlier was drifting up against the walls. Should they be letting the guns and stuff rattle around like that? The fuzzy dice tied to the Whipjack drive were straining against the handle, looking like they wanted to join up with the other accumulated crap.

“It’s a really, really expensive ticket,” said Johnny. “Lotta mad cash, you feel me?”

“I’m sliding away again,” called Cyril, the rustle of beans giving away his movement. Johnny angled The Hype up, aiming for the final orange and pink rings. They passed close enough to the wall of the orange one that Autumn could make out banks of technology and what looked like small cannons mounted on the side. The cannons were probably for security. Against aliens. Was she an alien now? The pink ring sailed past, the pulsing of The Hype’s engine now broadening into a dull hum, rattling everyone’s ankles. The Whipjack drive began beeping plaintively.

“Ahh! That’s more than four!” said Autumn, scrabbling at the face of the Whipjack drive. “I’m sorry!”

Johnny shrugged, popping his spit-slimed necklace back into his mouth. “It’s all g, player. Just flip the little grey switch at the top,” he said, shrugging.

Autumn ran her hands over the top of the Whipjack drive, which was already feeling overheated, and tentatively popped a switch.

“Aight, breathe out,” said Johnny, reaching over to wrap a hand over a heavy switch, pulling it towards himself.

And, with nary a pop to be heard, The Hype vanished.


	12. Orbits

A good distance away, The Hype erupted out of the fabric of time and space with a deafening roar that reverberated through its hallways. The crew cringed, the noise not helping their nausea. Once the shaking had died down and the rattling stopped, Johnny emitted a small, wet noise, fluid spurting from the side of his head.

“There we go,” said Johnny, taking a belt of Cartwheel Juice and swallowing uneasily. “G’job, Autumn.”

Autumn shook her head and slid to the floor with a groan. Cyril slouched lower in his beanbag chair, looking like a trod-upon starfish. “Dude,” he muttered, passing a hand over his face. “Did you just puke out your ears?”

_“Exet-lah,”_ said Johnny, waving a hand in a laissez-faire gesture. “It’s just throat fluid.”

“Blech,” said Cyril, his upper lip curling in disgust.

“It’s all-natural, boyo!” insisted Johnny, wiping some of the clear fluid away from the holes in the side of his head.

Channah cleared her throat and grimaced, seeming to have already shaken off the worst of getting warp sickness. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna go get a room,” she said, grabbing her staff and lurching up the stairs.

“Not settled yet?” asked Autumn dully, punctuating with a sickly-sounding belch. Channah ignored her, throwing her shoulder into the bridge door to pop the seal. Keeping one hand braced on The Hype’s walls, Channah did her best to wander back to the main loading room. She had no idea where she was going, and The Hype’s labyrinthine design didn’t help her whatsoever. Soon she’d have to mark walls with lipstick or blood or something in order to find her way around. Or maybe string, like that one girl in the constellations back when she was a kid. Turning a corner, Channah nearly smacked into another door. It didn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the ship, and she briefly wondered if she had enough power to kick her way through. It was weird, being out here in space with no solid ground underneath her. Sure, she did flights all the time with the Brat Queens, but those journeys were short. It was different. Being cut off from any kind of solid base, no dirt underneath her, it meant being cut off from her magic, too. It was gross. Super, super gross.

Channah looked over at the offending door again and pushed her curls off her face. There was a lock on one side. Sliding door. She oughta just blow the door in for the Hell of it, but she didn’t know if she was capable of even basic destruction. Instead, she reached over with one hand and popped the latch, accordioning in the door to let herself through.

* * *

Deep in the warping turns of The Hype, Suplex had formed into a disconsolate blob in what served as their room. Technically, it was the simplest form available for them, a blob of semi-orange gelatine with enough of a brain and a heart to be aware and sulky. Movement was tricky when everything was spread out like this, but staying put and oozing into the rivulets that held their bed-box together was the order of today. Holding a solid form made everything hurt after a while, and shifting forms was the only surefire way Suplex had to scratch at it. Besides, being a blob of mucous made music reverberate through you, which was relaxing.

Lying in the bed-box, Suplex ferreted after their rage, trying to figure out if it was just runoff from being pissed-off at Johnny, or if it was just…nope, they were mad at Johnny’s plan. If Suplex had teeth, they would have ground them. Instead, their body humped together like a ball of angry bread dough. Dealing guns pushed at the edge of Suplex’s admittedly nonexistent moral boundaries, but drugs, no. They wouldn’t sell drugs. Drugs always messed up people, while guns, well, guns could be used for anything. Touch was engineered to work with a majority of life forms. Nobody was sure for sure which side manufactured it, whether Goto or Templar. Popular, though. Addictive, too. Who can resist a good trip into space?

Suplex specialized a few cells into the beginnings of a spinal cord. A full body was excruciating and Hellish to do all at once. So many little details, and screwing up your lung tissue served as a very good reminder to why you should not rush things. It’s not like they had a lot of options outside of Johnny, though. Sure, selling cells and fluid and body parts definitely paid, paid through the nose, but it was, well, it was wrong. Suplex had very clear sense of right and wrong. Splitting yourself like an auction was _wrong._ Selling guns was _wrong_. Selling drugs was _Super Wrong._

Vertebrae clicked together, gently surrounding the whiplike cords of nerves. Limb buds carefully bloated into functional arms and legs. After that, it was only a matter of small details. Suplex loved the minutiae that came with specialization. It was great, the variety available, provided they knew how to produce it. It wasn’t as simple as pouring water into a glass. You had to know where everything went. And how everything went. Slithering out of the bed-box, Suplex stretched leisurely, bones and tendons clicking into place. Six-limbed and bipedal was always a favoured form. The balance was easy, the weight dispersed, and sure, it required a creative cardiovascular system but Suplex could make it work.

Stretching all four arms above their head, Suplex’s carpals and metacarpals crunched and cracked, dividing evenly into stubby fingers. Should they do nails? Would they need fingernails? Why not claws instead? Was today a claw day? As their scalp began to prickle with the familiar heavy weight of box braids, Suplex let their arms fall, the heavy muscles in their shoulders sliding unevenly against each other. Suplex grimaced. Their shoulder muscles had been giving them grief lately. Just one more thing to read up on.

Finally satisfied with their newfound body, Suplex threaded between the haystacked piles of CD’s and textbooks that had been grouped on the floor, picking up a skirt and a wrap top idly with their toes and flipping them up to catch with their lower set of hands. Splotches of orange had risen up involuntarily on their neck and arms and another one was beginning to ooze across the tight blue skin of Suplex’s chest. They weren’t sure exactly what the discolouration was. One of their textbooks said it was the Camellian equivalent to acne, while another said it was a hallmark of an autoimmune disease. Pulling their clothes on, Suplex idly flipped off one of their multiple stereos. Staying in your room and listening to Outkast won’t solve your problems. Bare feet thudding against the floor of The Hype, Suplex bent to roll their door up, the roll-top plates clattering against one another as Suplex stooped out.

* * *

The edge of the box was digging into the soft tissues just below Channah’s ribcage. She gripped onto the edge of the box with the top of her thighs, scrabbling her hands towards the bottom of the box. She had spotted a pair of something shiny and definitely clothing and she wanted first dibs before any of the crew thought to go through the loot crates. Limborium boxes were a total smash-and-grab when it came to good stuff anyway. You usually only got two good things per box and the rest was just ass-ugly. Her hands scraped against something sleek and shimmery, and she grabbed on tight. Her struggling had born fruit in the form of gold lamé harem pants.

“Not bad at all,” she murmured, before jumping out of her old torn-up jade green coveralls and into the baggier upgrade. Swishing her body experimentally back and forth, she admired the way the light played across her new pants before jumping back up. The lip of the box dug back in, and Channah used her staff to hook a coiled set of ropes. Those could probably turn into a hammock. Not a comfortable one, but it wasn’t like she needed to sleep that much. Just fill the proper amount to keep you from going totally lunar from the lack of a diurnal cycle.

Setting the coiled rope around her shoulders like a snake, Channah set off further into The Hype. Her footsteps echoed thinly against the rounded walls, made louder by her thin sandals. Shoes were a weird thing to wear. Maybe it was just the ship but the lack of magical connection was already driving her crazy. Following the worm-curve of the tunnel lead her to a blind end, a small rounded corner filled with sunlight. Raising a hand above her eyes and squinting up revealed a skylight the size and shape of a coffin, the pure light obstructed by horizontal bars across the inside. Toeing the straps of her sandals off her ankles, Channah rubbed her hands together, mapping out her space.

“Gotcha,” she said to the ship. “This’ll work.”

* * *

Suplex peered around the hallway, watching the dark-skinned girl cast rope over the bars under the skylight. They wondered what she was up to. Probably no good. Magic users often were. Already Suplex was feeling the push of intrusion. This girl, strutting around like she owned the place, and whatever knew the other two would be up to. Humans were bad enough by themselves, but magic humans were not to be trusted, double compounded. Suplex once again silently cursed Johnny’s terrible judgement of character. What was she doing. Suplex narrowed their eyes and tilted their head. Was she making nooses? Tying knots? Was this a human culture thing?

“Yo, get your thick ass over here. I need a boost.”

Suplex scowled. Their thighs were thick, and everything else needed to be in proportion. It was an aesthetic! They looked nice! Suplex reluctantly slouched over, minding the stomp of their feet. Kicking a hole in the floor would be a pain in the soft bits, no matter how much Suplex needed to verbalize displeasure.

* * *

Channah gave the alien a quick once-over. Whatever this one’s name was, it was short and blue and was gently sucking on it’s lower lip in displeasure. It sure as Hell didn’t look like it wanted to help. “I need, a boost?” repeated Channah slowly, gesturing to the bars overhead. It didn’t speak, hadn’t spoken, and besides, who even knew what Camellians understood anyway? The alien’s skin visibly darkened, swirling to a deep blue that reminded Channah of raspberries. Clicking it’s tongue, the alien rolled their eyes and blew a derisive gust of air. _Tsssh._

“Excuse you, and your bad attitude—“

The alien raised a hand and snapped their fingers. Channah nearly choked. What the Hell? Who did this stupid thing think they were, interrupting like she was some kind of nobody? That sort of shit was for stupid kids who’d never been in space before, not naming names, _Cyril._

They gestured to their ears, then a small line across their throat.

“What?” asked Channah. “What’cha doing?”

A series of gestures so fast that had Channah scrambling to keep up.

“Uh, ears! Hearing! Yes, hearing, you can hear? Tongue. Tongue? Talking? Eating, uh, slow down. Aight that one’s rude, cut it out. Throat. Hurts? Someone hurt you? Nah? You can’t talk!”

* * *

Suplex nodded, watching her face light up with pride. This girl had a terrible attitude and was without a doubt the worst at deciphering gestures they had ever encountered. Johnny hadn’t even been this bad, and they didn’t even have a common starting language together. “Aight, like, I dunno your name?” she said, gesturing between the two of them. “I’m Channah.”

_Suplex_ said Suplex, their top two hands twisting through the familiar loop-cross of their first name. The girl, Channah, she set her hands on her hips, pursed her lips like Suplex was being difficult on purpose. “Starts with an S, right? I think, Johnny? Said something. It’s a fighting thing. Suplex?”

Suplex nodded. This was going to be a long conversation.

“Like this?” she asked, trying to move her hands in the same form they had before. _Cut-the-eyes-out_ her hands said. Suplex grimaced and grabbed onto her hands, moving them properly and individually manipulating the fingers. The minute Suplex let go she snapped her hands back, crossing them under her arms. Of course. Suplex pressed their lips together into a thin line. Should’ve been gentler. Kinder. Don’t grab, that’s how you lose bits.

“Just gotta know what y’all’re saying,” said Channah awkwardly, shifting her feet closer together. She’d gone immediately into attack position the moment they’d touched her hands. Suplex felt like withdrawing. They’d only made things worse.

“Can I get a quick boost? I’m putting up a hammock. Room stuff. Y’all know what it is,” she said, not withdrawing her arms from their safely tucked-in spot. Suplex knew a peace agreement when one reared up, and this was definitely an offer. Suplex nodded once, decisively.

“Cool. Y’all any good at tying knots or nah?”


	13. Interior Decorating 101

Cyril had yet to get up from the bean bag. The beans were comfortable and friendly and they had sucked his hips into their beany chokehold. Of all the things he was supposed to be doing, lying around in a squishy, comfortable chair was not one of them. He could be scrounging over the ship, pulling things apart like Autumn was to make his little living space in the engine just a little more…liveable. _However_ , mused Cyril. _Is it possible I could achieve Nirvana through procrastination?_

“What’s this?” Autumn called from one corner of the room. “Is this the kitchen?” There was a loud clicking noise, followed by a _tokkatokkatokka_ of falling plastic containers.

_“J’ar Tar’a?”_ gurgled Johnny, rolling his head to one side to see over his shoulders. Autumn had opened up a bunch of previously child-locked cabinets and unearthed major amounts of plastic containers, one cast iron pan, and a pizza stone. “I, uh,” said Autumn, waving a cylinder of noodles halfheartedly. “I found the food.” Johnny glanced between Autumn and the hard plastic containers gathered around her feet and then slowly and silently sunk back into the pilot’s chair, turning to face the void in front of the windows. Autumn bumped some of the containers with her foot before bending over awkwardly to try to pick up the fallen food supplies. Cyril smooshed out of the beanbag chair, rolling awkwardly to his knees and heading over to help Autumn clean up. “Do you think he’s mad?” she whispered when he got close enough. Cyril carefully picked out empty plastic boxes, filling the larger boxes with the smaller ones. “I dunno,” he answered, keeping his voice low. “He’s a…an alien.”

“No, really?” said Autumn. “He’s green, doofus.”

“Oh my God, Autumn. Racist.”

“That’s not!” she said adamantly, standing up to put an armload of containers back. “You can’t. Can you?”

“Why not?” asked Cyril, trying to shrug and balance a stack of containers at once. “Didn’t the other one nearly get in a fight about it?” Taking a few containers out of Cyril’s arms, Autumn wiggled her nose, deep in thought. She didn’t answer, just put more and more of the containers back. “Wouldn’t it be more of a culture thing?” she asked after a while, socking a jar of what looked like bright red paste to the back of the cupboard. “Like a culture clash?” “

I mean you could technically describe racism like that too,” said Cyril honestly. “If you want it tidy and clean.”

“Oh-kay, fine, have it your way,” she answered. “You’d have a better perspective cuz you ain’t white and evil like I am.” Cyril felt his throat bleach dry with anxiety. Did he say something wrong? Had he said something wrong? She wasn’t the only human on board but Channah was…unpleasant, to say the least. If anything, he would only have to put up with her long enough to arrest Dudley and then that would be it, he would never have to see her again.

“I dunno about that,” said Cyril, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I mean, you’re not evil.”

“Such a compliment,” muttered Autumn, taking the last few containers and locking the door shut. Suddenly, the door to the bridge popped open, although reluctantly. Channah squeezed through, trailed reluctantly by the other alien. “Yo, Autumn,” called Channah, pulling her foot through the door. “Help me steal stuff and make my room cool.”

“No problem,” said Autumn. “I got like, a million blankets, you want any?” Channah nodded, surveying the bridge with a critical eye. “I want cool stuff.” The alien carefully edged past her and continued down the stairs, padding towards Cyril’s vacated beanbag chair. Cyril shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, watching the other alien curl up in his spot. “Do, uh,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do you two want help?” he asked, staring at the floor. “Sorry?” grunted Autumn, staggering under the weight of a couple sleeping bags. She kept trying to throw them over her shoulder, but they were too thick to fit properly. “He didn’t say anything,” said Channah dispassionately, flicking a sidelong glance to Cyril. “Oh,” said Autumn, handing a sleeping bag to Channah. “Can you hold that?” “Ain’t no problem,” said Channah, rolling it up easily and tucking it under one arm. “C’mooon c’mon c’mon c’mon, I wanna look around already!”

“Stay outta my arts’n’crafts room!” shouted Johnny, bracing his feet into the steering controls, his voice mixing with Autumn and Channah’s footfalls up the stairs. Cyril cast a longing glance back towards the capillary tunnel. He could head back inside, and weasel towards the engine room in the dark. Work on making his own little nest amid the pipes and machinery, create something quiet and safe away from everyone else. Although the prospect of Dark and Soft was tempting, there was also the option to not do anything. Cyril toed anxiously at the instep of one of his shoes, rubbing the right foot against the left. Glancing quickly towards Suplex, Cyril tentatively made his way over.

“Uh,” he said, giving a small wave. “Hi.”

Damn, Suplex was intimidating. Short but stocky, Suplex’s cobalt blue skin was streaked and splotched with polleny orange spots, a bright contrast against the dark material of the chair behind them. Box braids fell heavily around their shoulders, framing a round moon face with thick lips and a snub nose. Their brow creased, scrutinizing Cyril in a slow-traveling look.

“I’m Cyril,” said Cyril, sitting down to brace his back against the coffee table and hauling his knees up. Somehow, it didn’t feel as bad to have something steady and sturdy behind you. It wasn’t that bad. It was just making friends. Suplex nodded slowly, raising a hand to scratch at the bridge of their nose. “Can you…talk? At all?” asked Cyril cautiously. He knew that there was some things you shouldn’t mess with even by human standards, and there was no telling what was on or off limits right now. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Cyril clenched his molars together, trying to cut off the quiet _“Sorry,”_ that bubbled forth.

Suplex shook their head, box braids rustling against the beanbag chair. They bunched their legs up, bracing the lower, longer set of arms across them to mimic Cyril’s posture. Cyril suddenly felt hyperaware of his own skin and shifted to sit cross-legged. Suplex copied the gesture, sliding to the floor so their knees were nearly touching. Settling their face into a cupped palm, Suplex gave Cyril another once-over, sizing him up. Their orange blotches ran suddenly and swiftly, pushing the pigment together into a light brown, and their upper limbs crunched together, disappearing entirely, folding into dark fabric. Cyril froze, his breath catching. Suplex, now wearing Cyril’s entire body down to the hoodie and shoes, smirked and winked indolently before tugging at the various spots of their hoodie-skin, trying to get it to hang more naturally. Cyril gaped. His own weird mix of genetics displayed so effortlessly on someone else, and though he hated to admit it, Cyril's dark curls and skin partnered with his mothers' eyes looked way better on Suplex than they ever did on him. Suplex didn't have Cyril's self-conscious posture or bitten cuticles or chewed-up lips. Suplex wore Cyril's body like they'd been born in it.

 “I should go,” said Cyril quickly. “I have to get my room together.” Suplex shrugged nonchalantly, their lips pursing. They pulled at one of their cuffs, grimacing at the way it was stuck unnaturally to the arm beneath. It was…it was weird. It was throwing Cyril into a crisis state. His face didn’t look like that. He wasn’t that easy to replicate. Threading carefully across the floor, Cyril knelt to the capillary and drew himself through.

* * *

Meanwhile, back in Channah’s little corner, Autumn had managed to toss up two heavy sleeping bags and Channah was currently turning them into a makeshift mattress.

“So like,” asked Autumn, watching Channah happily fluff. “Do you miss your home at all?”

“Home like what?” Channah said, sitting back on her knees, the ropes sagging slightly under her weight. She glanced up momentarily at her staff that she had slotted between the bars. “I don’t think I’m gonna get that back outta there,” she murmured, wrapping a hand around the middle.

“You know,” said Autumn, eyeing the way the ropes were starting to sag. Channah was a fair way up, but not high enough to injure herself if it all came down. Probably. “Like, where are you from? Originally?”

“Like a planet or star system or somethin’?” answered Channah with a small grunt, accidentally knocking her fist against the metal bar.

“Yeah!” said Autumn, nodding enthusiastically. “Like that!”

Channah shook the staff, knocking the wood ineffectually against the bars. “I ain’t from anywhere. I grew up in a Citadel since I was like, five.” “Oh,” said Autumn, looking vaguely disappointed. “I just. We have stories back home, I thought you’d have a family to protect, or like, a boyfriend or something. Maybe a bunch of boyfriends?”

Channah leaned over the edge of the rope mattress, cocking an eyebrow. “The fuck would I do with a bunch of boys? Boys don’t do shit. They’re dumb and useless. Ladies, though,” she shook her head. “Girls are just so pretty.” Autumn puzzled over that. “Some boys are cute?” she offered.

“Nuh uh. They’re gross. Girls are hot, though,” said Channah. “I wanna get some pillows up here too.” Autumn paused, trying to mull that over. “I dunno where we’re gonna get pillows,” she hazarded, not wanting to step into tricky territory. For the first time, Autumn felt the ragged edge of uncertainty rise up between the two of them, and she didn’t want to make things worse.

“You don’t gotta be awkward about it,” said Channah, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m just gay. It happens.” Giving her staff one more hardy yank, Channah managed to work it free, the wood clanging against the bars as she pulled it closer to herself. On the floor, Autumn was sputtering a little bit, phrase filled with “I never said,” and “I’m totally fine with it.” She was flustered, but deep down, Autumn felt slightly off-kilter, the edge gone. “Don’t worry bout it,” said Channah, jumping down from her hammock. “I ain’t after y’all anyway. I got a girl waitin’ back with my crew. Let’s get some more cool shit.”

Channah loped back up the blue-green corridor while Autumn kept peppering her with little questions. Was her girlfriend cute? What was her name? How’d they meet? Channah answered the best and most honestly she could. _Duh. Desdemona. Gang stuff, I guess._

“Gang stuff?” repeated Autumn surreptitiously, throwing an exaggerated glance over her shoulder. “What kind of gang stuff?” Channah shrugged, ducking under the warped ceiling. “I dunno. Why don’t y’all do some talking for a little bit?” Autumn shrugged, pressing her palm against a door and popping it open. “I dunno. I don’t exactly have any adventure stories.”

Heading inside, the low-ceilinged room seemed to be a storage locker, stacked high with meticulously labelled cylinders. Looking over the labels, Autumn tilted her head to the side, trying to get a read for the harsh, triangular inscriptions. “Give it up,” Channah called, picking her nails into the top of one of the containers. “It’s just gun stuff, probably. And nobody can read Cuneiform like this unless you know where it’s from.”

Autumn sucked on her lower lip. Gun stuff. “So are Johnny and Suplex, are they like, pirates?” she asked, ducking her head down to the top of one of the containers and catching an eye-watering smell of mint. “Freelancers,” corrected Channah, leaning against a crate and watching Autumn clamber. “They ain’t got alliances or gangs so they just get by.”

Autumn looked back and forth, trying to trace the smell of mint.

“Does it smell like mint in here to you, Channah?” she asked, trying to peer between the cylinders for a space-age air freshener. 

“Oh yeah,” Channah agreed. “They put it in the gel. Reacts somethin’ real fierce, makes it like, super lethal instead of just paralyzing.”

Autumn froze. “So this room is full of bombs.” Channah shrugged.

“That’s freelancers for ya.”

* * *

Suplex scrunched around in the beanbag chair, pushing it with their feet to scoot heavily over the floor towards Johnny. Doing this would wear out the fabric, but Johnny could always fix it. Probably even get some new beans for it. Dreams were always free. Johnny stared blankly out the windscreen at a planet looming large at The Hype’s eleven-o-clock, eyes tracking the small blips of other spacecrafts zipping back and forth, small pops of light visible when their Whipjack drives engaged. Suplex gave a two-note whistle, and then gave Johnny their best smile. Suplex didn’t know if Cyril could actually smile. Grimace, definitely. They'd seen that today. Maybe trying the form on might have been a step too far, but Cyril seemed like the kind of human perpetually out of his comfort zone.

“Dope,” said Johnny, giving Suplex's new style an apathetic once-over. He slumped down into the pilot’s chair and absentmindedly began chewing on one of his necklaces. _Where-to-next?_ asked Suplex, admiring how well they had done Cyril’s fingernails. They hardly had to focus on it now, just plates of compressed keratin to form a light pink over brown skin.

“We got some business to bizzle, yo,” said Johnny, scratching at one of his fistulas and swiping away the fluid. “The Envoy of Ego wants some more gear. Ammo and Stoppo.”

Suplex blew out a gust of air, slumping against the Whipjack drive. “You look…” said Johnny, squinting down at Suplex. “Uh, perplexed. No, wait, you’re up and worried!” Suplex gave Johnny a thumbs-up. Johnny grinned and settled back into his chair, folding his feet neatly under his thighs. Bouncing and humming, Johnny nearly missed Suplex’s next question of _Where-Abouts?_ “Uhhh….” said Johnny, sucking on the necklace in his mouth and drumming a hand on his thigh. “Somewhere around the Bowie system?” Suplex grimaced.

_Heavy-G-o-t-o-forces-out-there._

Johnny spat the necklace back out. “I know. But betali be betali, and we gotta get on that _jos-khanon_ , you know what I’m sayin’, player?” Suplex scowled, staring down at the floor. They knew that the two of them needed to talk about business sooner, probably sooner than what would be comfortable, but now wouldn’t be the time, not with another deal coming up so fast. But the discussion needed to happen. The two of them were Freelancers, and if they didn’t have each other, if the partnership was no good, the pair of them might as well just pack it in right now. Johnny could go back to his mothers and their farm on Agrippa-Ten, and Suplex…

They snapped off that train of thought. There was not going to be any kind of thought like that. Not now. A lot was riding on this partnership and this ship. The Ship Ship and the Partnership. Suplex cracked a wry smile. That was at least kind of funny. Getting uncomfortably to their feet, Suplex tapped Johnny on the shoulder. _You-want-R-E-Q-or-drive?_

Johnny mulled that over. “I’ll get the requisition together. You can drive, bro-pilot.”


End file.
